


When I'm Without You

by spelling_error



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, Brock Rumlow Is a Good Bro, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Not Beta Read, Past Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sexual Content, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, good guy Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 46,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spelling_error/pseuds/spelling_error
Summary: one where Brock Rumlow isn't an asshole because Frank Grillo is too hot not to think about it sometimes.***Brock Rumlow was happy to die in the basement of Avengers Tower having not told them shit about the scepter, his buddies, or the Winter Soldier. He was content knowing that the Winter Soldier had escaped Hydra and that the scrambling factions of the organization would never touch him again.And then James Barnes walks into the Avengers Tower screaming at them to let Brock go and he has to wonder if he really deserves this.He probably does.***In which Brock Rumlow spends fifteen years repeatedly breaking the Winter Soldiers programming just to see the poor guy smile. Somehow they fall in love along the way.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 43
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Normally with this ship I'd tag it dub-con because Brainwashing (TM) but in this fic Bucky regains his memories and breaks Hydra's programming before any romantic or sexual content occurs.
> 
> I tried to avoid any consent issues with this fic. Bucky is consenting enthusiastically to everything and his state of mind isn't meant to be questionable.
> 
> However, if you feel that it's not tagged appropriately or that consent is questionable at any time, feel free to let me know.

There were no prisoners with Hydra.

Only order.

And order only comes through pain.

The Soldier was no prisoner.

The Soldier was only order.

And the Soldier came through pain.

That was all Brock Rumlow was willing to say on the matter when Rogers and his team interrogated him day in and day out.

They’d found him among the survivors of the fallen Triskelion, checked in unconscious and burnt to a charred, bloody pulp as another John Doe to a nearby hospital.

They’d at least let him heal for a couple months, before throwing him in the basement of their fancy tower.

He was awaiting a trial he was sure Romanoff had no plan on letting him make it to.

So, he was really just waiting to die.

He knew that the moment he woke up alive. He had accepted it the moment he heard that Winter was in the wind.

He supposed the kid had a real name these days. _Barnes_ they called him. Brock had never known his name, no one had known until the day on the bridge. Brock still struggled to call him that, he had known Winter for so long.

They worked together a lot over the years, Winter in and out of the freezer—always seeming to know Brock. First as a subordinate, one of few the Soldier was told he had to come back with alive, and then as a commander—a field handler.

A friend.

For all that there were _friends_ in Hydra.

A lover.

For all that there was _love_ in Hydra.

There were no prisoners with Hydra.

Only order.

And order only comes through pain.

Winter was a prisoner.

Winer was only chaos.

And Winter did not come through pain.

Brock didn’t tell Rogers and his team that though. They had enough incriminating evidence on him already. He didn’t really need to dig himself a deeper grave—he was already comfy and settled in the ground, just waiting for the lot of them to start shoveling the dirt on top.

Or, so he thought. But then _Winter showed up_.

“He says you helped him,” the winged guy who had helped the building along in its descent on Brocks face said. His name was Wilson, or something.

“Stockholm syndrome, what can you do?” Brock said with a maniacal grin. He didn’t need to do much to make himself look the part, not with the burns on half his face. Even his normal smile looked intimidating and half crazed.

_Brock remembers helping Winter._

_He remembers being ten years younger and Winter still looking exactly the same._

_He remembers being nine years, eight years, seven years younger and Winter still looking exactly the same._

_He remembers one, two, ten botched missions because Winter wasn’t as mindless as he needed to be and that wasn’t the kids fault—it was Brocks._

_“When they ask you to report, tell them it was me who jumped the gun, alright? And don’t change the story, no matter what, alright? It’ll be worse if they find out you can lie,”_

_“Should I maybe… not lie?”_

_“Nah, kid, it’s alright. You tell them it was me, okay?”_

_…_

_“Asset! Report!” Brock remembers the sound of the slap against Winter’s face when he hesitated, “What the hell happened out there?”_

_“Sir, agent Rumlow did not follow my commands. He moved in on the target too soon,”_

_Brock remembers one, two, five, ten million volts of electricity jabbed into Brocks gut. Four, five whacks over the head with the butt of a gun. Six, ten, thirty kicks to the rib cage._

_Remembers Winter going into cryo with nothing but a split lip and a confused expression._

_Brock remembers helping Winter._

Now, Wilsons looks at him with a frown, “Says he’s gonna get evidence, get you out of here.”

“Trained him well,” Brock said.

His voice was a gravely rumble, rough like sandpaper and it only added to the discomfort he instilled.

He smiled, all evil and sharp and melted, but on the inside, he wanted to scream.

That _stupid_ kid.

He was finally free, and now here he was, trying to save Brock and putting himself in danger.

What was left of Hydra knew the Avengers had Rumlow.

It was only a matter of time before they came looking to him for Winters whereabouts. Especially if Rumlow’s trial was delayed. They would know that Winter would come to him.

“Not very smart though,” Rumlow added with that same sharp grin.

Behind the two-way glass, a metal armed man crossed his arms and harrumphed with a glare.

_Winter remembers not always being smart._

_“Come on, what are you, stupid?” a gruff voice asks, “Go get the kit! He’s bleeding out, you fucktard!”._

_“L-leave ‘im alone, man. He’s had his b-brain scrambled enough times, you’d be stupid too…” Brock wheezed._

_“I’m not trained in first aid,” Winter had said, voice dull and emotionless._

_“Yeah, yeah we figured that” Brock had chuckled, “Go get the white box f-from under the counter,” he hissed._

_When Winter returned, Brock’s eyes were barely opened and the gruff man was slapping him awake._

_“Right, okay,” he rasped, “Jones—go circle back and give support for Rollins and th-the others, the Asset’s arm is broken—he can’t help”._

_“Rumlow, you’re dying, man,” the gruff man said._

_“I’ll make it, go, don’t fucking botch this mission, I’ll haunt you all,” he smiled with blood on his teeth._

_The gruff man hesitated to follow his orders which he should not have, but he left._

_“Winter, gonna need you to put pressure on that, alright? I’m going to do my best not to die,” he grinned, bloody._

_Winter did his best, even when Brock hissed in pain._

_“I—I am not trained for this. I don’t know what’s happening. What… can you die?” he asked._

_“Yeah, they scrambled you up good, huh?” he wheezed, “Yeah, Win. I can die, and I’m pretty damn close, so uh, sorry if I kick it, you know?”_

_“No! I don’t know anything! That’s the problem! I—I don’t understand, just tell me what to do and don’t fucking die! Please!”_

_Winter remembers not always being smart._

Now, Wilsons says with a carefully steady and emotionless tone to Brock in the interrogation room, “He wants to come in”.

_Brock_ wanted to bang his head on the table.

The kid was so close to being done with all this shit. So close. Fuck, Brock just wished that building had killed him. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with horrible turning anxiety in his gut, and that god awful wrongness that crept up his throat when he leered and said, “I’d love to see that pretty dead look on his face again, go on, send him in”.

_Brock remembers the first time he met the cold, dead, and emotionless eyes of the Winter Soldier and a few hours later, the bright stormy chaos of Winter._

_He remembers being twenty-eight, being briefed on his first high-profile case, a presidential candidate in some European country wasn’t complying with the order of Hydra._

_He had felt honour, and pride when he was told he would be working with the famous legend-- the Asset. An old soviet soldier who had signed up as a test for the super-soldier serum. He could survive cryo-freeze, and he was the only one they had, so of course it made sense to keep him in the freezer when he wasn’t needed. The guy could live forever that way._

_Brock felt his pride swell when the commander of his unit looked at the long haired and rough looking man who was no older than Brock himself and said, “Rumlow I want back, the rest are expendable” and the soldier had answered with a low “Yes, sir,” and turned flat, grey eyes on Brock, cataloguing his features._

_Looking at those eyes, Brock could almost think they were completely unseeing. Half lidded, his face passive and slack, his eyes moved though, taking in Brocks person, committing him to memory—for all Brock knew at the time, Winter retained memory between freezes—studying him. Brock didn’t bristle at the scrutiny, since it barely seemed Winter was coherent enough to form an opinion, and well, he wasn’t, Brock would later learn._

_Brock thought that dead look in his eyes had something to do with being haunted, at first. He watched the Asset tear through security, slicing throats, shooting people point blank. Shooting civilians, people who hadn’t even turned to see the carnage yet were delivered a bullet to the back of the head._

_Brock was impressed. He’d never seen anyone kill so efficiently before. He supposed he still hasn’t, since the Soldier was barely a person. But the soldier was a no-nonsense guy. Cut and dry. Order. Brock liked cut and dry, he liked order._

_Or so he thought._

_Until he saw order in Winters eyes, and saw it shatter into a beautiful stormy chaos._

_“Listen,” Brock had said to the Soldier the best he could while bleeding out from a bullet to the thigh, “I can’t walk, and your leg is broken,” he explained, “you have two options”._

_The soldier was efficient, but he wasn’t exactly quick thinking, Brock had learned after ten minutes of trying to have a conversation with the guy and getting nothing but blank, dead-eyed stares for his effort._

_“Options?” The soldier asked, clearly confused._

_Brock nodded, “Leave me here, and face whatever punishment they got for you,” he said knowing how Hydra worked by now, “Or try and walk on that broken leg with me bleeding out over your shoulder,” he said, “Either way, it’s pain for you, buddy, sorry,”._

_Brock had watched the careful order that kept those stormy grey eyes dim and dead carefully start to come apart and rearrange itself._

_“It’s up to you, I ain’t gonna be mad—I’ll be dead,” he’d grinned at the soldier._

_He ended up passing out several times on the journey, but Winter was rough, and his metal shoulder shoved up into Brocks abdomen did well to jostle him awake enough to get back to base alive._

_He got to see that order divulge into chaos just a little more before they had him back in the freezer._

_“It wasn’t the asset,” Brock had bit out, barely awake to the commander, “my radio broke, I didn’t hear his orders and moved ahead,” he lied._

_Brock remembers the first time he met the cold, dead, and emotionless eyes of the Winter Soldier and a few hours later, the bright stormy chaos of Winter._

Now, Brock would love to see Winter’s face, which was exactly why he had to make sure he didn’t. He wasn’t sure he could keep up the pretense of insanity if he got his eyes on the kid—wasn’t sure he could twist his words when he could see that endless crystalline grey of his eyes, bright with the chaos of a never ending storm.

“You’re not allowed visitors,” Wilson glared.

Brock disguised his relief as dejection, “Too bad,” he frowned exaggeratedly.

His relief was short lived, however, because the interrogation room door burst open with an almighty bang.

Brock and Wilson both jumped.

“Get out,” Winter growled at the Avenger.

“Barnes—”

“Five minutes,” he said and strutted into the room.

Brock didn’t pay Wilson any mind after that because Winter looked _beautiful._

He hadn’t looked so _clean_ since that mission a year ago when Brock had spent an hour with him in the safehouse bathroom, scrubbing the brain matter and skull fragments out of his hair.

_Brock remembers washing Winter clean of blood and bone._

_He remembers Winter being given orders to kill a target, but there was something about the target that set him off. He froze, and the target started running, so Brock took out the target himself, but Winter was splattered in blood, bone, and brains from being so close._

_Winter looked horrified. Brock felt terrible about it, he should have aimed better._

_They got back to the safehouse and Brock got him into the shower._

_“I’m real sorry,” Brock said, “was an honest mistake,” he said, hosing off the worst of it before helping Winter strip. It was just the two of them._

_“It’s fine,” Winter had said, shakily. “Just… gross, gross, gross,” he hissed over and over and Brock was pretty sure he was in shock, so he just kept scrubbing the blood away and trying not the drown him at the same time._

_He was mostly clean, less his hair, and he was sitting in the bathtub in a little ball muttering to himself._

_“Okay, okay, I’m going to wash your hair, alright?” Brock tried gently, “When I’m done, it won’t be gross, yeah? Think that’s reasonable?”_

_“It won’t be?” he’d asked, softly._

_“Nah, you’ll be fresh as a daisy, kid—all good,” he assured and worked shampoo into his hair, finding bits of bone and other, gooier clumps. The worst thing was that Brock wasn’t sure this was all from this last target. Not with how tangled his hair was. It took several washes, but by the time he was done, Winter looked almost human._

_“You’d be a real looker if we could find that jawline under all that scruff,” Brock remarked when he was toweling Winters hair._

_“Sounds like a challenge,” Winter had hummed, more himself now._

_“Want me to give it a go?” Brock asked._

_Winter smirked before he nodded._

_After, Brock let out a low wolf-whistle, “you sure shine up nice,” he said appreciatively._

_When Rollins had asked, Brock wrinkled his nose and said, “There was something rotting in his hair in the heat of that safehouse” and that was that._

Now, Winter looked like an _avenging angel_ , Brocks mind supplied frantic. Hilarious.

He’d lost the bondage gear, now in familiar black tac pants and a navy blue Henley, he looked smaller—vulnerable in a way he shouldn’t look right now, because it wasn’t safe.

Now, Winter was angry, brows drawn and that swirling chaos of grey in his eyes glared down at Brock, ready to unleash upon his former handler.

Winter leaned over the table and froze.

His mouth was parted on whatever violent outburst he was about to make.

He stared.

“All things considered, I think I look pretty good,” Brock said. He tried for the same cocky tone he’s been using with Wilson and Rogers, but it fell horribly short and came out as barely a rasp.

Winter plopped himself into the now empty chair across the table.

“What happened to you?” he asked, voice wavering.

Brock’s grin wavered in a similar fashion, “Your new pals dropped a building on my face,” he said, only marginally stronger.

Winter’s expression darkened, “Not my friends,” he said.

Brock leaned back in his chair to stop himself from leaning forward and kissing the dumb kid dumber.

“S’not how the captain tells it,” he drawled. “Bucky,” he said.

It felt wrong on his tongue.

It sounded wrong in the air.

It made Winter flinch.

“Not my name,” he said.

“S’not how the captain tells it,” Brock said again.

“I don’t give a fuck how he tells it”.

“You’re so pretty when you’re mad,” Brock sighed. It was the truth, and had been exactly what was on his mind, but the crazy lilt to his tone made him want to shudder, so he was sure Winter knew he wasn’t being nice.

“You always say that,” Winter said with a smile.

Oh, he was going to make this difficult.

“Aw, look at you remembering,” he cooed.

He felt sick.

Winter kicked him hard under the table and scowled.

“Rude,” he said.

“Ow,” Brock replied, deadpan.

“Pussy,” Winter smirked.

It was too much like _them_ and Brock felt something inside him longing for it to continue. He didn’t trust himself to speak and not continue the banter. Not give himself away.

Years in Hydra he kept up this façade. He could do it again, even with Winter looking human for the first time in _ever_.

“I had questions,” Winter said, “I forget them now,” he said, as if wheedling for more banter.

“I’m sure your buddies can ask them,” he said.

“They won’t get the same answers”.

“You’re getting cocky, out of the freezer like this,” Brock commented.

“I’m always cocky,” he replied, “ _remember?_ ” he smirked and wasn’t that the truth. Winter lacked the common sense to be anything but a confident little shit when he was with Brock for any length of time.

Brock couldn’t afford to reminisce right now. He needed to keep up the crazy act. If the ‘Avengers’ actually believed that their little Bucky was a willing participant with Brock, he’d lose the only protection he had against the last of Hydra that were scrambling to get their hands on him again. No, the Avengers needed to protect him, and if that meant painting himself as a crazy psychopath, he could do it no problem.

He’d fooled the Black Widow once, he could do it again.

“You’re five minutes is almost up,” Brock reminded, “Soldier,” he said.

Winter frowned, “What are you playing at?” he asked, serious, “They’ll kill you,” he said.

“Just playing with you, Buckaroo,” he grinned maniacally.

“Answer me,” Winter demanded.

“That’s no way to speak to your handler,” Brock cooed.

“Good thing you ain’t my handler then,” he spat back.

“Sure, I am, Rollins bit it,” Brock said with a shrug.

Peirce had gotten wise on some of Brocks ‘tendencies’ for treating the ‘asset’ a bit too human, and a bit less like the weapon he was supposed to be handling. He’d given command of the ‘asset’ to Rollins before the launch of the helicarriers, just in case. Just in case Brock got any funny ideas. Spoiler alert: he did.

“How do you know that?”

“I killed him,” he tried to make himself sound extra crazy, so no one would get the wrong impression and think he did it to help Winter (he did it to help Winter) or something.

“Now why would you kill my handler?” Winter asked, a knowing look in his eye.

He wouldn’t damn them both. Brock refused.

“I wanted you all to myself, baby,” he leered again, “Too bad Rogers grabbed you first,” he said, hoping the kid might catch his meaning and do the smart thing for once.

“Well you got me, and I’m getting you out,” he growled.

Who was he kidding, Winter never did the smart thing when you gave him the choice.

“Good luck, Soldier,” Brock said, hoping no one picked up on the stutter his wrecked voice made over ‘soldier’.

“Don’t call me that,” he growled.

“Sure, Bucky-boy”

“Damnit, Brock!” Winter hissed

“Ouh, now you’re really mad, huh?” Brock taunted.

“Please, B,” he whispered and Brock fucking broke. He did every singe time.

“Times up, Winter,” he said, “Go back to your boy,” his voice didn’t fail him, but it was a near thing.

_Winter remembers learning his name._

_He remembers a subordinate agent nudging him gently with his foot in the back of a van._

_“You got a name?” Rumlow had asked._

_The other agents shushed him, told him to keep his trap shut if he wanted to keep his job._

_“I’m just saying, calling him Soldier is going to get confusing when we rendezvous with the militia,” Rumlow had defended._

_“You think you’re smart, huh, kid?” the team lead scoffed, “If Pierce wanted us to know his name, he’d have told us”._

_“Pierce thinks I’m smart, don’t he, mister Winter Soldier, sir?” Rumlow had boasted with a smirk._

_It was their second mission together, and Rumlow had yet to figure out that Winter retained no memories between assignments. Winter knew nothing of the cocky kid, besides that he was valuable. Even more so than the team leader._

_Winter said nothing._

_Still, Rumlow had a point. It got very confusing for the Solider and his team when they joined ranks with a corrupt group of military. They needed to eliminate the corrupt soldiers and extract the others._

_The Asset was intelligent though. It was the team he was sent with that payed the price. Still, the mission was successful well within parameters. The team lead did not make it._

_“I told you so,” the cocky young agent had sing-songed to the team lead, right before putting the man out of his misery._

_Back then, Rumlow still took joy in killing._

_In the van on the way back to base, there was no one to shut Rumlow up._

_“If you don’t tell me your name,” the man had smirked, and the soldier had tensed. He had no name to give, yet he would be tortured for it, he knew, “I’ll just make something up,” he finished._

_The asset had no idea what he was talking about, tilting his head in confusion._

_The Asset wasn’t supposed to feel confusion._

_The asset didn’t feel._

_“Alright buddy, you asked for it,” Rumlow said._

_Again, words that usually accompanied pain, were followed by nothing but a deep rumbling voice and sharp smirk._

_“Bob,” Brock said._

_The collective van groaned._

_“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he laughed._

_He was covered in someone else’s blood and he was laughing. The asset had felt his breath catch in his throat, looking up to meet warm, amber eyes._

_The agent stared back, looking into the assets eyes in turn. He did not know what his own eyes looked like. Did not know anything about his own appearance._

_“I think I’ll call you Winter,” the agent, Rumlow, had said, smiling a little less sharp, and voice a little less boisterous._

_“Because that’s so much better than Solider,” another agent said with a sarcastic sigh._

_Brock had only shrugged._

_“Why?” Winter had asked. Speaking unprompted._

_Brock blinked before his face broke out in a wide, beaming smile that had the Assets heart beating faster than it should be._

_“You’re the Winter Soldier, dumbass,” the other agent spoke up._

_Frowning, Brock said nothing more. Not until they were unloading the van and he could corner the Asset alone._

_“Your eyes,” he said._

_“What?” The Asset had demanded._

_“You asked why I’m calling you Winter,” Brock defended, crossing his arms. He licked his lips nervously, and the Asset’s heart did that malfunction again. “It’s because of your eyes,” he said, and stalked off._

_Winter didn’t know what his own eyes looked like, but he believed the agent the same way he believed what his handlers told him. Maybe even more._

In retrospect, those corrupt soldiers were likely the only the only ones left that were still fighting a good fight. That was back when Brock was still younger than Winter, yet infinitely more knowledgeable. Back when Brock liked to kill, liked to fight, liked to win. So cocky and arrogant. He didn’t yet understand all that Hydra was.

Surprisingly for Brock, after a long pause, Winter nodded decisively and stood to leave the interrogation room.

“I’m going to get you out,” he whispered vehemently as he left.

Brock remembers saying those words, ‘I’m going to get you out’ to Winter a thousand times.

He never could.

It never worked.

In the end, it was Rogers who got him out.

He couldn’t find it in himself to be resentful, really. Captain America was always going to be the better man.

Brock was Hydra.

He was order through pain, no prisoners, false hope and faulty beliefs.

_Brock remembers the first time he voiced the idea out loud._

_Voiced his desire to keep Winter for himself and had it seconded by the very man in question. It was the third time that he had purposefully broken Winter’s programming with soft smiles, a hand in his hair, a piece of candy._

_It was so easy. Brock had no idea how Pierce didn’t know about it._

_Surely someone else had discovered this?_

_But he simultaneously hated the thought. Couldn’t stand the idea that someone else could do this, could see this, and then sit by and let Hydra tear the kid apart over and over again._

_But then, wasn’t that what Brock was doing?_

_He could lie and say he wasn’t a bad man for this. Could tell himself he made Winter smile and that was more than anyone else was willing to do for him. It was all a lie though._

_Brock was a selfish man._

_He was selfish and he was scared._

_He could take Winter’s hand right now, and tell him to run and run and never look back. He’d go, Brock thought. Winter was aware of the way Hydra mistreated it’s agents, especially those that could heal from almost anything._

_“Why don’t you ever try and leave?” Brock asked out loud._

_They were in a safehouse. Two hours before extraction. Brock was lying on a dusty old couch. Winter sat on the floor cleaning their gear._

_At this point, it was clear to the higher ups that Brock handled the Soldier well in the field. He wasn’t in charge of anything yet. Still young. Still trying to put the pieces together. Trying to climb the ranks, too._

_He knew Winter never remembered him, or anything at all, between assignments. Not until Brock could coax that carefully fabricated order away, or time permitted it, or the sun caught Brock’s profile the right way and made Winter want to kiss him. Then, Winter seemed to remember everything._

_Winter just shrugged._

_“I won’t stop you,” Brock admitted softly, eyes closed to avoid looking at the other man, “You know I won’t stop you,” he said, almost pleading._

_Somehow, despite knowing himself as a monster, Brock didn’t want Winter to think so little of him. So little as to assume he was as captive with Brock as he was with anyone else._

_“I know,” Winter sighed, “and they’d kill you for it, hunt me down, and I’ll live another… oh what did you say? Sixty years of this without you,” he muttered, “I don’t want to do this without you,” he said even softer._

_“Win,” Brock said, strangled, squeezing his eyes tighter closed. He still heard Winter shuffle about, didn’t jump at the feel of Winter straddling him on the couch._

_“Maybe the marks I kill aren’t the right ones, and maybe Hydra hurts me, and they take me away from you for months at a time, and it’s miserable, B, we’re miserable, but,” Winter had said, pressing their foreheads together, “I would rather have a few scattered moments of happiness with you than make some mad dash and lose each other forever,” and he kissed Brock slow and sweet._

_“It won’t be a mad dash then,” Brock heard himself say._

_He had thought about it. Oh, how he’d thought about it. There was no real way they could escape, not really. He still thought about it. He just never dared say it out loud._

_“I’ll make a plan, I’ll get you out,” he whispered between kisses that became more desperate by the second. “We’ll kill them all, anyone who ever hurt you,” he breathed, hands sliding over every inch of skin he could find._

_“Us,” Winter murmured, “We’ll kill anyone who ever hurt **us** ,” he corrected._

_Brock groaned as Winter grew restless and desperate against him, grinding hips together._

_“We’ll paint the world with their blood, fuck knows there’s enough of it,” he panted._

_He rolled them over, stripped Winter down, and made promise after promise into heated skin._

_“I’ll get you out, I’ll keep you safe, I promise, I promise I’ll get you out,” and the funny thing was that Winter was always bad at sensing lies._

_But they both knew Brock was lying that day._

But here they were. Only this time, Brock hadn’t saved Winter. Rogers had. So, it wasn’t Brock that Winter should be focused on looking out for.

Was probably Stockholm syndrome…

Rogers came in not long after Winter left.

“What was your relationship to him,” he demanded.

Brock’s smile was a little soft, but the burns on his face made it look creepy enough, he supposed.

It was a loaded question, anyway. He had no straight answer.

Brock had his turn at being his handler. Had been a subordinate for a few years. Was a field handler before he was a real handler. He was a valued team member. He was a lot of different things.

Friend.

Lover.

_Brock remembers the very first time they kissed._

_He remembers that_ _it was Winter who kissed Brock the first time. The Soldier, carefully preserved in cryo, hadn’t aged in the five years they had been working with each other, thanks to the months and sometimes years in the freezer._

_“You’re older,” Winter had said on day two in the land of the living. They had a few targets for him this time, all unrelated and with a different kill style to minimalize speculation._

_“You remember me?” Brock had asked, surprised._

_“Sometimes,” he nodded, “when the light—” he gestured vaguely, “makes you look like that,” he finished, awkward._

_Brock raised an eyebrow, “Like what?”._

_They were on a rooftop at sundown, Brock keeping tabs on the soon to be moving target who liked to avoid windows._

_“That,” Winter said again, shrugging._

_Brock had laughed, “I’m going to set this up,” he said, moving to the surveillance equipment, “you think about what word you’re trying to say,” he smiled._

_He was always patient with Winter. No one else seemed to be. The strike teams always got frustrated when he didn’t remember them, or when he didn’t laugh at their jokes, or when he stuttered through conversation instead of joining in on the fluid flow of banter. Poor guy needed someone in his corner every now and then—something to break down that rigid order and obedience._

_“I remember wanting to kiss you, I think,” Winter said unprompted, setting up his rifle, “I don’t remember things about you other than wanting to kiss you on a roof a few times,” he said, casual as you please._

_Brock had near choked on his tongue._

_“You’ve never done it,” he filled in, when he wasn’t sputtering anymore._

_“Maybe this time,” Winter had shrugged._

_Brock was completely caught off guard._

_Even more so when Winter **did**._

_Crawling into Brocks lap, Winter kissed him slow and deep and more thoroughly than he’s ever been kissed in his goddamn life._

_“I’ll definitely remember that,” winter breathed heavily into Brocks mouth._

_Brock kissed him again, harder, and possessive—searing the memory into Winter’s brain the same way Hydra seared order into his soul._

_“Thanks, asshole,” Winter said later, “Now every time I see you, I’m going to get a boner and not know why,” he’d glared._

_Which only happened three or so times, that Winter admitted to, and usually resulted in sex._

Behind the two-way mirror, Romanoff asked Barnes the same question, “What was your relationship to him?”.

“Fuck off,” he told her, watching Brock through the class.

He saw that crazy glint in Brock’s eye right as the man went to answer the question.

Winter slammed the button for the PA system, “Self preservation, asshole!” he yelled.

Brock absolutely cackled with manic laughter.

He did much better playing at being crazy when Winter wasn’t in the room.

Winter heaved a sigh, _god damn that little shit_ , he thought.

***

“Buddy, I’m working on clearing your name, still,” Stark said, “I don’t think there’s enough lawyers in the world who can clear his, too,” he said exasperated “and Cap keeps telling me not to believe you, so…” he shrugged.

Rogers glared but didn’t bother to dispute the claim.

“Check the Hydra files!” Winter ground out, “There’s reports, I was taken out of his command because he kept breaking my programming!” he paced. There was another file, something was in it that Winter knew was important but the memory was still cloudy. He knew the file would help Brock though.

Sometimes Winter forgot why they made him wear a muzzle.

He was remembering now, though.

The muzzle did good to remind him to keep his mouth shut, even without physically keeping it that way. He really needed the reminder now though, since he couldn’t seem to stop raging. Too bad the only other thing that did well to remind Winter to _shut the fuck up_ was locked in a cell in the basement doing his best Joker impression and making Winter look like goddamn Harley Quinn!

“There are other ways he could break your programming,” Wilson said softly.

“No, he was the only one who could,” he informed them, frustrated, “Peirce hated it, could never figure out what was doing it but five minutes in a room alone and I’d remember everything about him,” he went on.

“He played it to Peirce like it was a fear response,” Winter was getting steadily more aggressive in his pacing, “Which is what he’s doing now, only I don’t know why!” he seethed, “he’s not protecting either of us, and now you fuckers all think he’s some psychotic fucking pervert or something,” he ran his hands through his hair.

“Bucky—” Rogers tried.

“Don’t call me that”.

“What the hell are we supposed to call you, man?” Wilson asked frustrated.

They were all frustrated.

Rogers had set out to clear Winters name the moment he woke up from Winter shooting him three times and debating for way to long about letting the guy drown. He knew this, because there had been press conferences streaming all over the fucking planet to tell him so.

It hadn’t mattered. Winter had crawled into some shitty apartment on the other side of the world to lick his wounds after loosing Brock. He refused to acknowledge Rogers or his friends, feeling both guilty now that the amnesia was wearing away, and raging mad because Brock was gone. Hydra had fallen, but what was the god damn point if Brock was gone. They were supposed to do it together.

He had ignored Rogers pretty pointedly until the news of Brock Rumlow’s trial made its way to Winter.

Suddenly Rogers and his team were met with a rather inarticulate and angry Winter Soldier.

No one really knew what was going on.

“My name is _Winter_ ,” he said.

“Winter,” Romanoff said. “That’s what he called you,” she pointed out like it was some grand discovering.

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s my _name_ ,” he drawled.

“We are just having a hard time believing that there is anything good about Brock Rumlow,” Rogers said, “I’ve seen him in the field, he’s a sadist,” he said, shaking his head.

“And Hydra,” Stark added, helpfully.

Winter rolled his eyes, “He’s not _evil_ ,” he bit out, “Killing people is _his job_ ,” he ground out, “It was your job too,” he added.

They were on a team with Brock, they should know the care he took. He delivered pain, quick, precise, and exactly where it was meant to go. He looked out for his men, too. He was a good agent.

“Literal Nazi, Barnes,” Stark said, “your boyfriend is a literal Nazi”.

“Are we talking about Brock or Captain blond hair, blue eyed, American superiority over there?” he asked with a sharp smile.

Stark snorted and tried to disguise his laugh with a cough.

“He’s Hydra, Barnes,” Wilson said, “being less shitty than the other guys in that place doesn’t make up for that,” he said.

“If you can clear my name, you can clear his,” Winter said stubbornly.

“You were brainwashed!” Rogers yelled.

“Induced amnesia!” Winter corrected.

“There’s not much difference, let’s be honest,” Stark said.

Stark wasn’t so bad, but he wasn’t exactly helping Winter’s cause here, so he leveled a glare at the man.

“He was going to leave,” Winter said quietly.

“What?”

“We were going to get out together,” Winter said, voice dull. He stopped pacing, but didn’t sit. He’d like not to be such an easy target for Romanoff.

Somehow that seemed to bring more pity into the room, “I know he probably told you that but—"

Winter cut Wilson off completely, “He’s not evil,” he growled.

“He could have fooled me!”

“Well, he is still Hydra,” Winter shrugged, “he’s good at fooling people,” he said.

“You realise what you just said, right?” Stark said, raising an eyebrow.

Winter wasn’t exactly in his element here. Negotiating wasn’t in his skill set. Stand there and look deadly was more in his wheelhouse.

“It doesn’t matter if we can gather evidence that he tried to help you or not,” Rogers said, “if he doesn’t want to cooperate, he won’t win in court anyway”.

“You never planned for him to get to trial, so cut the crap,” Winter said with a glare.

“What do you mean? Of course we—” Wilson tired.

“The widow’s going to kill him,” Winter said simply, “or she was. Now she has to kill me too,” he added, “Might want to reconsider,” he said to her.

Winter spent the rest of the night sitting with his back against the reinforced steel door of Brock’s cell. He could hear the other man breathing, could make out the rasp of his damaged vocal cords as air passed through the scarred tissue of his throat and lungs. He wondered if Brock could still smoke.

Every now and then he would hear the beginnings of a nightmare, so he’d loudly bang his metal fist against the door.

It scared the shit out of the guards who were watching him wearily already.

It scared the shit out of Brock the first two times as well, but then he caught on.

“God damn it, Winter,” he heard the muffled sigh.

It was the most like Brock he’s sounded like since Winter got into New York that morning.

He hid his grin behind his hair.

_Winter remembers Brock having nightmares._

_In safehouses, on airplanes, in his apartment, in vans._

_He did not know the difference between dreams and nightmares, though._

_He remembers Rumlow knocking a tooth free from the head of a young agent who woke him from moaning and twitching in the back of a transport._

_He doesn’t know what was so significant about it. They weren’t together by that point, not really. Though the memory stuck once they were._

_Sharing a safehouse, Brocks breathing turning erratic with dreams. Mumbled words. He tossed and turned on the sofa, nearly landing on the floor._

_Winter knew, he had remembered what happened to the young agent, so he knew what would happen if he woke the other man._

_He anticipated the pistol whip, caught Brocks punch and waited._

_“Jesus fucking hell, Winter!” Brock shouted in alarm, “I could have shot you!” he hissed._

_“What do you dream about?” Winter asked, releasing his hold, sliding back down onto the floor, back to Brock._

_It took a moment for Brock to resituate himself in his side, Winter’s head leaned back against his chest, Brock’s arm came down over Winter’s._

_“You don’t dream?”_

_“I don’t sleep,” he replied, honestly, though Brock knew that. He didn’t dream in cryo, is what he meant._

_Brock sighed, fingers running idle over Winter’s chest._

_“I dream about work,” he replied to Winters question._

_“Work is a miserable thing to dream about,” Winter scoffed._

_Brock hummed, “You know what nightmares are?”._

_“No,” Winter admits._

_“Dreams that are miserable,” Brock answered._

_“You have nightmares,” Winter inferred._

_“Be lucky you don’t,” Brock sighed, “your life is miserable enough”._

_“It’s no so bad,” Winter had sighed, “I have you,” he smiled._

_He felt Brock kiss the side of his face._

_“You have me,” he agreed._

_“What are your nightmares of?” Winter asked this time._

_A moment passed, “Missing the mark,” he said and this Winter understood. Missing a mark was miserable. Then, “Hitting the mark,” he added._

_“You don’t forget your assignments,” Winter realized._

_“No, I don’t”._

_“You shouldn’t dream. Your life is miserable enough,” Winter mumbled._

_“Not all of my dreams are nightmares,” he chuckled._

_“Tell me a good one,” Winter insisted._

_“I dream about you,” Brock said with a smile. “Dream about your eyes, and your laugh, I dream about taking you away,” he said. “I dream about you not being miserable anymore,” Brock whispered._

_“Us,” Winter had said, “Dream about **us** not being miserable anymore,” he insisted. “Dream for us both,” he brought Brocks hand to his mouth and placed a kiss there._

Now, after a few hours, Brock gave up on sleep. Winter could hear the shuffle of the pillow he’d been given across the floor.

“You should go,” he heard, somehow closer but quieter than the last time Brock had sighed at him, “Hydra’s going to come lookin’ for ya,” he mumbled, “they know you’d have been here,” and there was a thump to signify Brocks head hitting the door.

Winter hoped the camera in the cell could make out the shape of his words. He needed proof for Stark.

He liked Stark, since he at least was considering that Winter wasn’t insane. He’d also said that Brock was hot enough to bang even if you only had half a brain to operate on.

“Rogers’ll look after you,” he said.

Winter wasn’t used to the gravel of Brock’s voice, and it scent a shiver up his spine now as the man whispered raspy through the steel.

“Come on,” Brock said, “Let me die knowin’ your safe, huh kid?” and he sounded defeated, both like he knew his death was inevitable (Winter would prevent it, though), and like he knew Winter wasn’t going to give up (and he wasn’t going to give up).

“You got out,” he said, “that’s all I ever wanted,” he whispered.

Winter gave in to the temptation and started tapping against the door. Morse code. The guards would know what he was saying, but at least they would only have one side of the conversation.

‘U D-I-D-N-T’

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighed, “stop that,” added, “they can hear you,” but the protest was weak.

‘M-T-T-R-S 2 M-E’

They were both quiet. Brock knew Winter wasn’t giving up.

“I love you,” Brock finally whispered. “Don’t you dare code tha—”

‘I L-O-V-E U 2’

“Bastard,” he sounded fond.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for homophobic language while Brock tries to explain Don't Ask Don't Tell to Winter in a flashback.

“I’m getting visits everyday now, am I?” Brock grinned when Wilson came into the interrogation room the next day.

Usually they gave it a rest between days, but he supposed Winter would be hounding them. Kid probably rambled half the night away before coming down to bug Brock too (not that he minded).

“Barnes wants you out,” he said.

“So I’ve noticed,” Brock replied.

“He says you could break his programming”.

“You don’t actually believe him, right?”.

Brock wanted this to be over already. He hated this. He hated painting Winter a liar instead of just himself.

“Not sure what to believe,” Wilson shrugged.

“Hydra’s still in his head,” Brock bit out, trying to sound cocky and barely making it—Wilson bought it though. “I’m his handler, and he reports to his handler,” he leered, “He always has, and he always will,” he grinned, “Only difference is that I’m his favourite,” he purred, raspy and rough, “I always gave him a reward for his service, if you catch my drift,” he grinned around the churning of his guts.

Wilson looked about as sick as Brock felt.

_Brock remembers the first time they slept together._

_He remembers Winter’s smirk, insistent movements, skilled tongue in his mouth._

_Remembers that it really was a reward, if only in the teasing sense._

_“I did good,” Winter smirked, “I deserve a reward,” he leered._

_“Oh, you did, did you?” Brock rolled his eyes, “You shot three teammates,” he pointed out._

_“In the interest of protecting Hydra’s assets,” he murmured, sliding into Brock’s lap. They’d kissed, made out, he even got Winter off once almost completely by mistake with some heavy petting. They’d never gone further then that._

_“Yeah, you were protecting Hydra’s assets alright,” Brock grumbled, hands instinctively finding Winter’s hips and then sliding lower to grip his ass._

_“And I want a reward,” Winter gasped, a little breathless already._

_“Anything for you,” Brock had said, meaning it more than he wanted to admit._

_“Want you,” he whispered._

_“You always have me,” Brock sighed back._

_“Want you,” he said again, grinding his ass down on Brock’s crotch pointedly._

_Brock was still young then, young and hopeless for Winter. Everything was still so new to them, yet they had been stealing moments of familiarity for years. New and familiar all at once._

_There was a rush of thrill, of desperation, of want and desire like he’d never known before that moment. It was chased with the warm comfort of Winter’s breathing, of his weight, of the way he kissed the same way every time._

_Brock wanted to know Winter even more in that moment. Was greedy for it. Always had been, really. Always, always greedy for every spared moment with Winter._

_There was a need, deep within that grew with Winter’s movements and Brock wanted, needed to give Winter this. Wanted to bring him something good._

_Brock felt so hopeless, so useless, so sick in the face of Winter’s pain. There was so little Brock could do. This… this was something. Or everything._

_And Brock gives that man anything he asks for, knowing full well he can never give him what he **needs**._

_Except, “Please, I need you,” is what Winter pants against him twenty minutes later with Brock’s fingers inside him._

_Brock feels a shiver run up his spine at the needy, breathless way Winter begs._

_“B, B, need you, need you, come on, please,” and he sounds so sincere. That’s the kicker. Winter withers against him needy and wanton and desperate for Brock and Brock alone._

_It’s more than Winter’s desire. More than his need to experience things that don’t hurt. More than pleasure. It’s Brock._

_Winter meets his eyes, stormy grey-blue swallowed by black, reflecting Brock’s own open expression back at him._

_He’s seen Winter beaten, bloody and broken, but this… this moment, when one metal hand is twisting in the sheets, and trembling fingers that never hesitate, that never shake, that kill with heart-stopping efficiency are gentle against Brocks cheek… Brock see’s true vulnerability._

_“I love you,” Brock tried to whisper, but the sound comes out barely a rasp and Winter surges up to kiss the words from his mouth._

_It’s not the kind of sex that Brock was used to having. It meant something. It meant everything._

_It was the best sex he’d ever had, but he’d come to say that about every encounter with Winter._

_It was so obviously Winter’s first time, with the way Winter’s eyes shot open, back arching of the bed with a sudden and confused, “Oh! Wha—oh, oh,” when Brock found his prostate. The way his metal hand tore through the sheet, legs going tense and mouth falling open on a silent strangled gasp as Brock continued to fuck slowly into him at the perfect angle. Winter’s entire body clenching around him._

_There was something like awe on Winter’s face, eyes unwavering from Brock’s as they rocked together, Winter’s voice cracking on whimpering moans of Brock’s name._

_He looked so beautiful in pleasure. Sweat rolling down his temple, raw, open need on full display for Brock to drink in. He was nothing like the Soldier. Winter never was, but this—this was the crumbling of every wall and barricade that kept anything from one another. Brock didn’t need a mirror to know his own expression gave away everything he was feeling._

_Afterwards, Brock’s voice was still wrecked with emotion, “Is that what you wanted?” he asked into Winter’s chest._

_“You are what I wanted,” Winter breathed against the top of Brock’s head with a smile in his voice, “So, yes”._

“For a guy on death row, you seem pretty keen to dig yourself a deeper hole,” Wilson finally said to Brock in the interrogation room.

“I just don’t want to listen to you guys start pitching deals,” he lied smoothly, “Not interested in selling out my pals when I know I’m never seein’ the sunshine again, you feel me?”.

Wilson seemed like the only one they wanted to send in. Rogers was too hotheaded, and when Romanoff was close enough to make out the features of Brock’s face, he refused to open his mouth. He wasn’t that stupid. Stark wasn’t really an option, he guessed— the guy wasn’t much for listening to other people. So he was stuck here with the guy essentially responsible for Brocks fucked up face, which sucked.

Behind the glass, Stark blew out a slow breath, “Yeah, he’s really going for the Joker thing, huh?” he said to Winter, “and two-face, with the kinda sexy, kinda disfigured thing,”

Winter shrugged, “No Harvey Dent though,” he pointed out.

“Riddler?” Stark offered.

Winter nodded, “Sounds about right,” he agreed, “except I don’t know what I did to become Harley fuckin’ Quinn over here!” he added, loudly over the PA and startling both men in the interrogation room.

He watched Brock lose the fight not to start laughing. It wasn’t a maniacal laugh, just a deep one.

He didn’t bother to hide his own shy smile at the sound. It was familiar, even as it was raspy now.

“If I put effort into helping him,” Stark started, “and it turns out you’re both just crazy?” he went on, “I’m blowing up this tower and going to live in the mountains,” he decided.

“He can help take down Hydra,” Winter said, “Between the two of us, and the data dump—we have everything”.

Stark was quiet for a long time, it was an unusual sound in the scant thirty hours he’s known the man.

“Think carefully,” Stark said, “Do you think we _need_ him to take down Hydra?”.

“Yes,” Winter replied, catching the hidden meaning behind the words.

Stark nodded, “I’ll get to work,” he said, “Try and get DC super villain under control in the meantime,” he said, “Nothing I come up with will do shit all if he doesn’t wanna play,” he added.

Winter would make him play, that was for sure.

When Winter entered the interrogation room this time, he came with the keys to the handcuffs that kept Brock chained to the table.

“Barnes,” Wilson warned.

“You don’t have to stay,” Winter shrugged, walking around the table to slink into Brock’s space and gently taking his wrist.

Brock didn’t do much to take the flabbergasted look off his face. Once his hands were released, he made an abortive movement towards Winter but managed to make it look like a stretch of his arms.

“See?” Brock sneered, “Hydra makes loyal little soldiers,” he grinned.

Winter glared.

“I think I might have to stay,” Wilson spoke up. Winter could hear his heartbeat. Fast with fear and nervousness. Of what, or for who, Winter couldn’t really say.

“You here just to stand there and look pretty?” Brock purred.

Oh, Winter _liked_ the way his voice sounded like that.

“No, but I’m multitasking,” he shot back.

Brock leered at him, “You sure are, doll,” he said, voice just a touch too gentle to be the creepy harassment he was going for.

“Thanks, B,” Winter said with a smile. Wilson stood and took up point near the door, arm crossed defensively.

“I remembered my questions,” Winter informed.

“All on your own?” Brock bantered, “Look at you,” he mocked.

“Jack Rollins’s time of death,” Winter said instead of rising to the bait.

Brock sighed, “I don’t know, I didn’t have a watch on me,” he muttered.

“That’s okay,” Winter smiled, “Was it before, or after receiving orders to assist P-Peir—the secretary,” he stumbled.

Brock couldn’t bring himself to answer. Couldn’t find it in him to be able to mock Winter in that moment.

Kid just took it as a challenge though.

“Did you kill my handler before or after he was supposed to defend Peir—P—Peir—”

“Stop,” Brock, gritted.

He wasn’t going to sit here and listen to Winter torture himself trying to say that name.

Winter could never say Peirce’s name, and Brock was never cruel enough to say it to him. When his memories were foggy, and he didn’t remember much of anything but pain and order, the Soldier had no problem with it. Winter did though. Winter was terrified of Peirce. In a way, so was Brock—if only because of how he could hurt Winter.

_Winter remembers Peirce._

_Remembers remembering him sometimes too._

_“Do you know who I am, Asset?”_

_“Secretary Peirce, sir,” Winter, barely able to stand on his own after being newly defrosted answered gruffly._

_It wasn’t really Winter who answered. He was the soldier then, but Winter still remembers._

_At the time he knew nothing._

_Nothing except that he was a man, and he was tired, and he was cold—but the cold was going away slowly with each tired blink._

_The man in front of him was blonde. Old. He had a kind smile. He was military. An old soldier. The Asset knew he was a soldier too. They were the same. The asset and this man. The Asset knew what military was. He knew what a chain of command was. He knew this man commanded the Asset._

_He knew this man’s name was Pierce._

_He did not know his own._

_He didn’t know then why it was that he always remembered Peirce when it was clear he wasn’t supposed to._

_“Wrong answer, Soldier” Pierce smiled. Every time. “Wipe him again!”._

_Winter remembers pain._

_The chair caused pain in a way Winter could not experience any sensation like it when outside of it. The pain was very unique that way. Hot and cold, sharp, and a dull ache. Splitting and pressing. Agony like fire. Torture like frostbite._

_It made him forget everything but the pain it created._

_He could not hear anything but the screaming buzz of electricity in his head. Could not smell anything but the stench of burnt plastic, toxic and suffocating and bleeding pain in his nose Could not see anything but blinding white light that burst periodically through the black darkness. Could not taste anything but the sharp burst of copper on his tongue stinging and sour. Could not feel anything except **everything**._

_“Do you know who I am?” He was asked. The soldier did. Though he did not remember ten minutes ago. Or six months ago. Or fifty years ago._

_He knew this man was military. He knew the that he was military too. He knew the blonde man was his CO._

_He knew the man’s name. It was significant somehow._

_“Secretary Peirce, sir,” the soldier rasped, unsure of why his throat was raw. Like he’d been screaming. He wasn’t. He was sleeping._

_“Wipe him again”._

_“Sir? We just did,” a voice from somewhere out of his line of vision said meekly._

_“Again”._

_Winter remembers pain._

_“Do you know what the definition of insanity is?” Pierce asked the Soldier._

_“No, sir”_

_“Doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results,” he smiled, warm and inviting, “But with you it’s just fun,” he said, patting the Asset’s cheek._

_Now, with a collage worth of memories of these moments, Winter realized that he was being conditioned to associate Peirce and the chair together. That was why he remembered him._

_Because like the words, Peirce always accompanied the chair._

_It was why he could not say his name._

_“Wipe him again,” Peirce said._

“Answer the question,” Winter repeated ignoring the rush of emotion that memories like that stirred, “The two men who held the most power over me are dead because of you,” Winter said, “You save my ass, I save yours, now answer the damn question”.

Brock lasted fifteen years lying to Peirce about his feelings for Winter, about where his loyalties lied. Peirce never suspected a thing until the very end, when Brock had planned out Winters escape. Brock had tricked the Black fucking Widow, and a grand total of nine minutes with Winter who stood tall and unafraid for the first time _ever_ had Brock breaking like fucking glass.

He couldn’t play the Joker, couldn’t play the psychopath, the ‘I love the cold, dead look in your eye’ card, or the maniacal laughter, couldn’t gather the strength (or was it cowardice) to look at the man he loved and tell him it was all a lie even if he knew that it might very well be the only thing to save him.

Insecurity and shame bubbled up inside him, spilling over into the fear he had of Winter throwing everything away for the lost cause that was Brock god damn Rumlow.

“I didn’t save you now did I, Winter?!” he finally shouted, “That was your pal Rogers,” he spat, “his lot killed the secretary and broke the fucking programming, I didn’t do shit,” he slammed his hand down on the table, “So fuck off, I’m not some god damn white knight, I’m Hydra!”.

It hurt to raise his voice, and it came out dark and dry and it stung to know he was the one yelling at Winter this time, but the other man didn’t back down at all.

“So, what? You weren’t the one to pull the trigger on the secretary so now you don’t deserve me?” Winter shouted back, “You want to hand me over to Rogers like I’m the god damn Asset and it’s his _reward_?!”

Brock went pale, felt horribly sick and maybe even gagged at the thought.

“That’s what you said, isn’t it?” Winter felt anger boiling inside of him. Brock was being so _stupid_! Winter was getting overwhelmed by the feeling, his judgment clouding, the need for violence singing in his veins. He stood, slammed his own hands down of the table, denting in with the metal of his arm. “You said to let Rogers take care of me,” he hissed, “I don’t want Rogers!”.

Brock stood, looming as much as he could with his feet still chained to the floor, “God damn it, Winter!” he yelled, “Fucking use your head, would you!” his gravely voice shouting sounded damn near demonic.

“You said we’d take Hydra together,” Winter hissed.

“Well it didn’t fucking work out,” Brock seethed back.

“I’m going after what’s left,” Winter said challenging.

Ice flooded Brock veins, “No,” he croaked.

Fear surged up inside him. No, no, if Winter went after Hydra—they’d recapture him in a heartbeat. They had the _words_. He’d end up a puppet for some fucking goon, drunk on power over the Winter Soldier—it would be so much worse than Peirce.

“You promised we’d paint the world with their blood,” he whispered, “but I’ll do it alone if I have to”.

“You—” oh god, he couldn’t breath, “You can’t, Winter, you can’t,” he tried to say.

“You can’t stop me, and if you wont help—”

Brock couldn’t let him go. If he got anywhere near Hydra they’d use the words, they’d get him back in the chair. Another seventy fucking years would pass with him suffering over and over again and never knowing why or what he’d done to deserve it. Seventy years of thinking that the torture, the pain, the misery and confusion were _normal_.

He could not let that happen. Winter was finally free from it.

Brock would not let it happen.

“Zhelaniye,” Brock whispered.

Winter froze, “Don’t you fucking dare,” he said, slow and dark.

“Rzhavyy”.

Winter shouted, and tore the table separating them from where it was bolted to the floor, sending it flying into the guards streaming into the room because now Winter had Brock by the throat, and he was hovering in the air.

Brock stared back into that angry gaze, watching the swirls of anger in those stormy eyes.

_Brock remembers the first time Winter got angry._

_He remembers all of those first time emotions too._

_Anger… that was something incredible. The first time Winter ever got angry, he was angry on his own behalf and it was **beautiful**._

_The first time Winter got angry was the first time Winter fought back._

_Sure, Winter made calls that cost lives of his teammates. He sacrificed men left and right for himself and for Brock, but that wasn’t outright defiance._

_This was._

_The mission had gone well. Excellent actually. Not a single casualty, which was incredibly rare on missions with the Soldier, and even more so with Winter._

_It went so well that the boys were still riled up with excess energy and excitement from the fight. Keyed up and looking for trouble._

_It was always the Asset they set their sights on._

_Brock could deter them. He always did. He was their Commander after all. He also knew the Asset better than they did, and they often heeded his warnings._

_When Brock was in the room._

_But Brock couldn’t always be in the room. Couldn’t always have one eye on Winter to keep the boys in line, not without being obvious._

_The team had all piled into an apartment safehouse, Brock and Rollins in the shoebox kitchen radioing in the extraction team. Confirming success with the cleanup crew when a gunshot rang out from the other room._

_A thousand scenarios pass through Brocks head between the kitchen of the front room, gun drawn and ready for the worst._

_None of those scenarios prepared him for what he saw._

_Jacobs was sprawled across the floor, breathing heavy through his nose, a bloody cheek and blooming purple bruise on his likely broken jaw._

_Davis had a gun to the back of Winters head. Winter, who was on his knees in the middle of the room, was not the one in danger. The gun was crushed in his metal hand. The only danger was hearing loss if Davis was stupid enough to fire._

_Princeton was laid out flat on his back, Winters knee crushing down on his chest and his knife buried in Winter’s thigh._

_Winter had a stun baton shoved down Princeton’s throat, a pound of pressure away from stabbing it through the back of his head._

_And Winter’s eyes._

_Swirled like smoke. Poisonous, choking, smoke. The kind that promised a slow, painful death._

_Another gun was tossed a few feet away from the attack. A bullet hole in the wall behind them._

_Winter’s protective gear was off leaving him in a thin sweat soaked tank top with a tear in it._

_Winter’s gear was on when Brock left._

_“Report!” Brock barked, not sure who he wanted to hear respond._

_“Mission was successful,” Winter growled out low. He didn’t sound like the asset. Didn’t look it either._

_“He wasn’t looking for a mission report, dumbass!” Rollins bit out, adjusting his stance when Winter’s eyes landed on him._

_“Mission was successful,” Winter said again, lip curling in a sneer. Princeton made a choked noise when Winter pressed his weight forward._

_He knew what Winter was saying. ‘I did my job. I don’t deserve punishment’._

_Brock put his gun away._

_“I fucking told you boys not to fuck with the Asset!” Brock barked, “Rollins, get Davis and Jacobs out of here,” he said, “Should fucking let him kill you, Princeton!” he spat. “You think I was fucking joking when I told you keep it in your god damn pants?” he growled._

_Rollin’s was nervous helping Jacobs up, didn’t get closer than he needed to in order to motion Davis with him._

_They needed out of here before the cops responded to the gunshot._

_With the others gone, and Princeton staring up in desperate pain, Brock caught Winter’s eye, breath catching._

_Beautiful._

_“You’re carrying the body,” Brock rasped, softly, and stepped back._

_It was barely worth it, in the end._

_The punishment nearly outweighed the benefit. Nearly enough to ruin the memory. Brock still cherished it though._

_Winter, angry. Winter standing up for himself._

In present day, he laughed, because god, Winter _was_ beautiful when he was angry. Brock loved him so much, loved that he was willing to fight for his freedom, even from Brock. He hated that he couldn’t protect Winter, but in a way was glad he’d never have to use those words. As a handler, he’d had to memorize them. Now, Brock feared they were out there and common knowledge amongst the remaining and scattered forced of Hydra.

His vision was greying out, but all Brock wanted to do was brush the hair back from Winter’s face. So he did, pushing back the errant strands and resting his hands around the back on Winter’s neck.

He watched Winters angry fade to sadness, tried to speak, but suddenly something sharp stung the back of Brock’s hand and he jerked away.

Winter dropped him back onto his feet, and Brock stumbled as he gasped for air. That’s when he saw the tranquilizer dart sticking out of his hand.

“Fuck,” he said, looking up at Winter, and when did he get so tall? Oh, nope, Brock was just falling over—and then unconscious.

Winter noticed the dart, pulled it free as Brock collapsed in slow motioned, as if to prove a stubborn point. Winter immediately turned on the guard who fired it.

Winter… doesn’t fully remember anything after that, but he became aware a few moments after he’d cleared the room of both guards and Avengers, and barricaded the door with the table he’d upended.

He knelt next to Brock, who shot bolt upright in a panic, “Win’er,” he breathed, seeing the other man.

“I’m here,” Winter assured, “Are you okay?” he asked, checking to make sure he hadn’t hit his head in his fall. His feet were still chained to the floor and he sprawled out onto his back blinking wide and unseeing eyes at the ceiling in confusion.

“Where are we?” he demanded instead of answering, “Are you hurt?” he slurred.

“We’re in Avengers tower, and no, I’m not—you are,” he rolled his eyes. Of course Brock would immediately seek to care for Winter, ignoring that he could barely move his own limbs and that the room was spinning and tilting on its axis.

“Why the fuck—oh,” he said, “The fucks in tha’ shit?” he mumbled, trying to sit up and failing. He was confused, memories of the last few days slipping between numb fingers. He should be unconscious, but he was fucking fighting it—whatever it was.

“It was meant for me,” Winter muttered, stroking a hand down the unscarred half of his face. It was more a third of Brock’s face that was affected. The apple of his left cheek, temple and part of his forehead. His eyebrow on that side crossed with melted skin too. The right side of his face had similar scarring across the bridge of his nose and around his eye, but the brow was unaffected and the bottom half of his cheek and his forehead were unmarred. His ear was deformed a little on the left, and the burns trailed down his neck and disappeared into his shirt. He had grown out stubble, and it was a little patchy with the scars on the left side, as with his hair at the temple, but other than that—Brock was still handsome as ever.

Winter kind of liked the scarred and scary look. It just kinda did it for him (Oh god, he was becoming Harley Quinn)

“Right, so I’m fucked,” Brock nodded and lost his battle for stubborn consciousness.

A full sixty seconds passed before Brock was shooting upright again, clearly the tiny dose not enough to keep him from being an overprotective asshole.

Winter was fucking pissed at him. Never in his albeit shoddy memory, did Brock every use the trigger words on him. He didn’t think he ever would. Winter had no idea why the hell Brock would use them—what he was so afraid of.

“Winter?”

“I’m here,”

“Fuck, are we at HQ?” he muttered, eyes unfocused, “Where’s the secretary? Are you hurt? Wha’s goin’—” he passed out again. Despite his anger, Winter pulled Brock up to lay his head on his lap.

Ignoring the DC super-villain jokes and Harley Quinn parallels, Brock had never hurt Winter. Winter wasn’t crazy when he said that Brock had been good to him, and that they planned to escape Hydra together. It wasn’t a pipe dream, and it wasn’t some fucked up trauma response. Brock had been a part of Winter’s life for the last fifteen years, sticking his neck out for Winter, taking the punishment for missions gone wrong, and taking the time and energy to explain things to Winter when his memory was gone without ever trying to tell Winter who he was.

Winter couldn’t… couldn’t wrap his head around why the hell Brock would betray him by using the trigger words.

_Winter remembers Brock refusing to hurt Winter._

_He remembers Brock arguing with the Secretary. He remembers Brock yelling at the STRIKE team._

_“You’re too soft with him, Rumlow,” Pierce remarked._

_“Like hell,” Brock scoffed, “All do respect sir, I ain’t got a fancy list of words to bring him to heel like you do,” he said, standing at parade rest, “and we both know I can’t do much more than slow him down if he decides he’s done playing pinata”._

_“You don’t trust the programming?” Pierce asked with a sharp smile. He was setting a trap, for Brock._

_Winter was focused on the two men speaking a few feet away, even as his body jolted from yet another jab from a stun baton he wasn’t watching for. Brock’s posture was calm and relaxed in every way except for the white-knuckled grip he had on his own wrist behind his back. Winter, curled up of the ground, was the only one at an advantage to notice._

_Brock sensed the trap, too._

_Trap, test… It didn’t matter really._

_The next silent hiss of pain was accompanied by the taste of blood in the back of Winter’s throat. He made no sound, even as black spots danced in his vision. Something rupturing inside him burned. If he made sound, they would hit him harder. If he made sound, he’d distract Brock._

_“I know not to underestimate an opponent, sir,” Brock said. The best way to lie was not to lie at all. Just omit the truth. That was what Brock taught Winter, and what he practised himself. “Know not to overestimate tech too,” he said sharply._

_“You think your smarter than the other men on your team because you’re afraid of the Asset,” Pierce summarized, almost with admiration._

_Brock was an agent to be admired. Winter knew that. Brock was a well feared man in his own right. Junior agents listened to him, and they listened well._

_Brock laughed, “Yes, sir. I do,” he nodded. “He’s valuable. More valuable than I am. More valuable than the whole squad” He belied nothing in his body language, but the words, despite the cold and detached tone, were almost familiar to Winter. Something like the way Brock spoke to Winter when they were alone, maybe. “He can stir up a hell of a lot of trouble before you give us permission to put him down. Drop a whole lotta bodies in that time too. I’d like not to be one of them,” Brock finished._

_“You think he’d spare you?”_

_“I think he’d leave me for last,” Brock smirked. He said this with a confidence unlike anything else he had said. Winter knew that even if Peirce suspected Brock of hiding something, that Peirce would find no lie in that statement._

_Pierce looked considering._

_“I’m putting you in charge of the Asset on this mission,” he said. “I think you really get him,” he nodded with a slow smile, “You understand, don’t you Rumlow? The importance of our mission. The sacrifices that need to be made,” with a friendly pat to Brock’s shoulder, he somehow missed the tension there, “Those that we cannot afford to lose”._

_How ironic, that it was refusing to hurt Winter that gave him so many promotions through Hydra._

_Afterward, when they were alone, Winter grinned bloody at Brock, “Congratulations Commander,” he murmured._

_“Shut up, shut up, just—” Brock mumbled, shaking hands trying to clean the rapidly closing wounds on his face and head._

_“I’m okay,” Winter had mumbled._

_“You will be,” Brock swore._

Three more times, Brock bolted upright to ask if Winter was hurt.

Brock was delusional with the drugs in that dart. Something meant for a super-soldier couldn’t be good for Brock, even in such a small amount. It was impressive the man was even able to grasp some semblance of consciousness and be able to tell they were in a cell.

“Winter, get out of here,” he said the fourth time, “Get out, it’s your chance to get outta this shit okay?” he mumbled, “get out, they—they’re gonna do some—some real fucked up shit if I’m outta it like this, so fuckin… just run, okay? I think… Winter… I think he knows, alrigh’?”.

Winter knew what Brock was trying to say. It broke his heart even more. That was it, wasn’t it? He thought. That was Brocks plan for getting Winter out of Hydra. Sacrificing himself. That had been his fucking idea this whole time. Even now, delusional and high, he was trying to get Winter to leave him behind. Winter wouldn’t do it. Brock had to know that. There was no version of events that would ever lead to Winter abandoning the man he loved for death.

“No, I’m not leaving you,” Winter murmured.

“Please,” Brock slurred, “You gotta get outta here… find uh…” his eyes drifted closed for a second, then were wide open again, “holy shit what is this crap,” he muttered, “Winter, find Rogers, Steve, Steve Rogers, he—he knows who you were before, and… and I’ll meet up with you when Peirce is done wit’ me, alright?”

That last part was such an obvious lie that even Brock cringed at the words before fading back into unconsciousness.

“You’re lying,” he whispered, but Brock was asleep.

Winter held him against his chest.

It didn’t take security and the Avengers long to get through the door, and when they did, Brock was awake and incoherent enough to try and defend Winter—like always.

“It wasn’t the asset,” he insisted, staggering to his feet and tripping over the chain still attached to the floor. “No, leave him alone, I’m his fuckin’ handler” he seethed, getting back up, “get me Peirce, or fuck right off—you, you ain’t authorized to touch him!” he yelled when Wilson moved towards Winter, “Don’ you fucking touch him!” he tried to launch himself at Wilson, falling on his face.

It would be embarrassing, but then he turned to Winter, a smirk on his face that didn’t bode well for anyone, “Run,” he ordered, then swept Wilson’s legs out, grappled with the man, and had… oh god was that… He had the discarded handcuffs positioned at Wilson’s throat in a makeshift shank.

“Brock!” Winter finally shouted, because he’d been completely frozen by Brocks antics, “Stop, stop—he’s not Hydra!” he insisted, “They aren’t after me—come on, you’re fucked on horse tranquilizers, just let him go, jesus you moron,” he tugged Brock back, who was rapidly losing consciousness again, handcuff shank falling to the floor.

“Winter!” Brock sat up again, and oh dear lord, that was getting old.

“Shut up, you’re high,” Winter said.

“Oh,” he said, “Fuck, ‘m I ever,” he muttered, “is this what it’s like to be you, babe?” he mumbled.

“Lord give me strength,” Winter muttered, but couldn’t help but let out a tight laugh.

“Winter,” this time it came softer, “I’m going to kill everyone,” he said, “who ever fuckin’ hurt you, I swear, ‘m gonna paint the fuckin’ world in Hydra’s filthy fuckin’ blood, and you… you’ll be a’right, kid,” he sighed, slapping blindly to make contact, whacking him in the side of the head in what was likely supposed to be comforting.

Brock didn’t wake back up.

***

When Brock came to, he was missing a few hours of his life, and every bone in his body hurt like it wanted a hand in retelling whatever bender he’d just been on.

He was tied to a cot in a concrete room, so… maybe not a drunken bender. He had a feeling his bones would have even more to say come tomorrow.

Then he saw Winter.

“Winter? Are you hurt? Where are we?” he asked.

“No, and we’re at Avengers tower, and if you ask me that one more time, I’m putting myself in the chair this time,” he growled.

Brock took a moment to let the words sink in, “Nah,” he said, “No more fucking chair,” he said.

“You’re going to make a deal with Rogers and his team to take down Hydra,” Winter said, “We both are”.

Winter was angry with him, that he could tell. He was just struggling to figure out why. He’s sure there were a lot of reasons.

Brock sighed, “They ain’t gunna go for it, Win”.

“You promised, B,” he says, and gets up and leaves.

Brock continues to lay there, head spinning—the last two hours slowly seeping into his memory.

Winter is more than just a little mad at him. Brock tried to use the words to stop him from going after Hydra alone, Winter attacked him, he attacked the guards and Wilson. They’re lucky Rogers wasn’t near by.

Everything is such a mess. God damn that stubborn kid.

It’s not long before the door opens again. This time it’s Stark who comes in.

“Sup Two-Face,” he nods.

Brock groans and bangs his head against the cot.

“Let’s make a deal,” the man says, pulling up the chair that Winter had just vacated.

Brock stares blankly at the ceiling. He was going to kick the kids ass next time he came in here.

“Barnes is offering us information on the remaining Hydra cells he knows about,” Stark says, “in exchange,” he adds, “We recruit both of you for our little suicide squad, and then let you both disappear into the sunset,” he explains.

Brock just shakes his head, “Winter— _Barnes_ , can’t take down Hydra,” he says, “they’ll recapture him and then it’s over for all of you,” he huffed a laugh, it was far to strained to be anything but genuine concern.

Stark shrugged, “Too late,” he said, “Guy ran off, told us he was after some file that would help plead your case. Wouldn’t give up the location until we’d come to an agreement for your freedom, Romeo”.

Brock yet again, felt ice replace the blood in his veins. He felt himself pale, “Follow him,” he growled.

“We can’t, he’s already gone,” Stark said.

“No, Stark, fucking listen to me—” he pulled on the restraints, “I’m not—I’m not fucking kidding,” he insisted, “The words—there’s words that trigger the programming! They were in the Hydra files you dumped, he’s going to get—just fucking find him! You have to find him, Stark”.

“Woah, woah, alright big guy,” he says plaintively, “He’s gone, he left an hour ago—we have no idea where he went—”

“Warehouse district, east of here,” Brock interrupted, “He’s looking for Peirce’s personal reports—there’s a storage facility there, that’s where he’d go, he only left twenty minutes ago—he’s bypassed you security—send Rogers, _now_!” he yelled.

Stark touches the side of his glasses, “Jarvis, you got that?” he says.

A moment passes and he nods at Brock, “Rogers is on route, we have a few seconds of him on CTV headed east, you better not be sending us into a trap,” he added.

“I’m not, just go, Rogers’ll need backup if he doesn’t get there before they get to Winter,” he growled out again.

After Stark left, several guards came in to remove the restraints keeping Brock in his cot. He paced, and paced, and kicked at the cot (the only thing in his cell) every few turns.

Winter wasn’t thinking with a clear head. He hid it well, but this was such a horrible and ill thought out plan it was clear the kid was floundering. He never did well with the finer details of mission planning. He was quick and whip smart in the field, but he was never one for a plan. Good to follow one if it’s already laid out, but solo missions were always brute force and luck for Winter.

He had to be struggling emotionally, too, Brock thought. Kid just found out he’s nearly a hundred years old, isn’t actually a Hydra agent, but rather a brainwashed puppet—and his old war-time buddy is crawling after him like a lost fucking puppy.

Brock’s probably not doing any favours for him, either.

Their relationship had been dubious at best, considering Winter suffered repeat amnesia every time they met.

Brock never told the kid about their past together. Every time the Soldier was defrosted, Brock was nothing but a commander, a fellow agent, a handler. He was professional.

Every time, the Soldier would look at him and say, “You’ve aged,” or “That’s new,” pointing at a scar that hadn’t been there the last time.

Every time Brock would ask, “You remember me?” and the Soldier would say, “Sometimes,” in that vague, gruff voice of his.

He didn’t always break the programming, and they didn’t always kiss, or fuck, and he wouldn’t always remember Brock at all beyond knowing they’d worked together on other assignments.

Brock never said anything, always let Winter—or the Soldier—come to the conclusion on his own.

Sometimes the programming—that perfect order—never went away, and still the Soldier would stare blank faced and dull eyed at Brock for no reason anyone besides Brock could decern.

Sometimes the chaos would swirl in gentle spirals through those grey eyes, but he’d never fully shake the order and obedience, and he would talk just a little more than he needed to with Brock.

_Brock remembers that in-between version of Winter._

_A small smile. Eye contact._

_Muttered things like “Nice shot,” or, “that’s a nice knife,” or one time, “Those pants make your ass look good—it’s distracting,” which was said in front of the entire STRIKE team and led to hours and hours of them making fun of the ‘asset’ for being gay._

_“Fuck off, I ain’t no fairy,” Brock had to reluctantly join in._

_He hated it. Hated the look on Winter’s face too, but if the team found out that Brock was also gay, if he laughed it off without raising his hackles then Peirce would start looking into the ‘Asset’s’ behaviour around the commander a little too closely._

_Brock had to be careful._

_That’s what he told himself, at least._

_Told himself it was all in Winter’s defense. Had nothing to do with his own fears._

_“Look, you can’t say shit like that when the guys can hear you, okay? Pierce doesn’t need to find out about it, about you,” Brock had said later, when he had the Soldier alone for a minute._

_“It is… bad. To be a fairy,” summarized the Soldier._

_“No!” Brock said instinctively, “Er… yeah. Sort of. It’s not, and you shouldn’t call it that, but it’s bad if Pierce knows. It’s only bad if people find out about it, is what I’m saying,” Brock struggled._

_“Understood, agent,” the Soldier nodded, “But wear different pants,” he added, and stalked away._

Sometimes the programming came apart like flaky pastry in Brocks hands and Winter would blink at him, chaos is his eyes and smirk and _flirt_ and Brock was pretty helpless to keep himself in check when he had two hundred pounds of deadly super-soldier in his lap, kissing him within a inch of his life.

_Brock remembers that flirty way of his._

_The sway of his hips. The pink pout to his lips from biting them._

_Catching Brock’s eye with a raised brow as he silently took out the next target. The smirk when he didn’t make it to a teammate in time, as if to say “oops” with his eyes ablaze with something near joyous._

_All it took was a gentle touch from Brock. A smile, a nod. A subtle ‘I see you’ and Winter swirled passionately into existence. A whirlwind of emotion beautiful and destructive. A mess._

_Winter was always a fucking mess. Leaving pieces of himself in Brock’s life. In his bed, in his car, on his clothes. The sound of his voice ricocheting for months on the walls of Brock’s apartment._

_The wrecked sound of him begging to be fucked, all sweet moans and ‘I remember you’s and ‘Please, you make me feel human, B, please,’ and tears welling up in his eyes because, ‘I’m so confused, nothing makes sense, but I know you, B, I know you and I love you,’ and how was anyone supposed to do anything but give Winter anything and everything he wanted?_

_And Winter wanted to be taken apart._

_That was the thing. That’s what he really wanted. What he was really asking for when he moved his hips that way._

_A silent plea._

_…Let’s make a mess. Let’s feed the chaos. Take me apart and don’t let them put me together again…_

_But Hydra always put him back together again._

He never should have done it, he knows.

Poor fucking kid had imprinted on him or something, like a god damn baby duckling.

Brock was a selfish man, though. Brock had fallen in love with Winter the first time they’d kissed, ten fucking years ago and he’s been living his life waiting for the next time they defrosted him ever since.

He still tried to maintain the façade, went home with pretty women just as regularly as the other members of the Strike team did, but he never tried for more—never called a woman back the next day, never went on a date. He was a one-night stand kind of guy. His heart was with Winter, got frozen and thawed alongside him and Brock couldn’t care less that he was going to die of old age before Winter aged a single fucking year, or if they went years without thawing him. Brock was never going to love anyone else.

And of course, nine years ago, a year after Winter had kissed him—he’d started telling Winter, started telling _himself_ even, that they would get out, rally some forces of their own and take down Hydra. It was nothing but soothing words he would whisper to Winter after he’d faced ‘disciplinary action’ or that he’d whisper to himself late at night when weeks turned to months and approached a year without seeing Winter’s face and he’d lay in bed, still covered in some poor saps blood who probably didn’t need to die but had because Hydra was _order_ and he’d whisper, “I swear, when we get out of here, we’ll paint the world with their blood, Win”.

He had a vague memory of muttering it to Winter a few hours ago while fighting the weight of unconsciousness from the half dose of fucking horse tranquilizer he’d taken.

He regrets making that promise more than he regrets falling in love with a guy who was barely human and spent most of his time in a freezer.

He regrets it because it’s going to get Winter killed or _worse_.

The soviets who had built Winter had conditioned him with a failsafe. Made specifically for when the programming started to slip. A handful of words spoken in Russian, and the Winter Soldiers screamed just as loud as he did when he was in the chair. It made him think he _was_ in the chair. It was some crazy Pavlovian response to hearing those words and suddenly you had a fresh slate—induced temporary amnesia. It didn’t work nearly as well, and was more of a band-aid patch job to wrangle him back to base than it was an actual wipe, but still. All handlers had to know them, including Brock.

_Brock remembers learning those words._

_Remembers Pierce hovering over his shoulder, likely looking for any sort of weakness. Brock remembers struggling to keep every muscle still, open, relaxed. He couldn’t risk so much as tensing his toes for fear that it would show in his microexpressions. Pierce was no Black Widow, but he did know what he was looking for._

_“It’s simple, really,” Pierce was saying. The Soldier put himself in the chair without hesitation. No one told him what it was for, but Brock suspected he knew anyway. He willingly opened his mouth for the rubber guard, willingly sat back against the chair._

_“You’ve heard of the famous Russian scientist Ivan Pavlov?” Pierce asked._

_“Yes, sir,” Brock agreed._

_“It’s really all there is to it,” he smiled, “The Asset, he was made by the Russians, you know. As we know him at least,” he shrugged, “The supersoldier serum, that was all Hydra of course,” he added._

_“But this?” Peirce motioned to the chair, “we have the soviets to thank” and he handed over the little red book._

_Brock’s hands didn’t shake, but it was a near thing. His fingertips dig into the leather like he might be able to crush the book out of existence._

_“The chair has a bit of a duel purpose,” Peirce went on to explain, “At first, it was designed to help relieve the soldier of painful memories,” he said, “Our soldier is far older than he looks, you know,” he joked, “Lifetimes of serving Hydra, shaping the world, well—you know how it goes, it adds up, becomes traumatic,” he said with a sympathetic tilt of the head, “So we take the memories away, lets him focus on his current mission” he said._

_Winter’s expression was a blank mask. Carefully preserved order and pain. He was the Asset here. Not a single thought in his head that Peirce hadn’t constructed for him._

_“But, he heals fast, you know” Peirce goes on, “Sometimes memories, painful, tragic memories of his past resurface. I know you’ve seen it,” and Brock nods tersely._

_“PTSD, it’s cruel really, but he’s a loyal agent, Rumlow. He truly is Hydra’s best,” and the whole thing is said with such admiration and pity, and kindness that it makes Brock sick. It all makes him sick, of course, but this? The way Peirce talks about Winter like they’re doing him a favour, like he truly is Hydra’s greatest agent and not a puppet on a string… it irks Brock in a deep way. Because years ago, if he had gotten this speech? If he’d never met Winter and had only knows the order of the Asset? He would believe every goddamn word. It makes him wonder if Peirce believes this shit himself._

_“So they added a little something inspired by their great scientist. Pavlov. We can help him forget without the chair, when we need to, with that,” he tapped the book still clutched in Brock’s hands._

_“But you know all this, don’t you, Rumlow? You’ve taken interest in the asset yourself,” he says._

_It was always a test with Peirce._

_“I’ve worked with the Asset a lot, sir,” Brock speaks. See’s the Asset’s eyes land on him. If it’s because he recognises the sound, or is simply tracking the new voice, Brock couldn’t have said. “I was honoured to meet the legend years ago, it hasn’t really worn off,” he lies, “The other guys, they don’t seem to get it, do they? Everything the Asset has done, how important it is that he can continue to do his job,” Brock says, “I understand that a weapon needs to be maintained, sir. My interests are Hydra’s interests,” he states._

_It isn’t all lies. Even if Peirce suspects dishonesty, it would be hard to tell what he was being dishonest about._

_“Good, that’s why I’m giving you this promotion, Commander,” he said. “I want you as his handler, in the field. Read that, memorize it. You said you’re familiar with Pavlov and his dogs. I think it’s time you get the chance to bring him to heel, isn’t it?”._

_The Asset screamed as Peirce demonstrated the Russian dialect with the hum and electricity from the chair, and again just as loud as he did without it._

_After that, there wasn’t a night that Brock didn’t wake up hearing that sound. Hearing Winter scream._

It was that only Peirce, Brock and Rollins had known the words—Peirce was protective of them because of how much power they gave someone over the Soldier. If a low ranking officer got cocky, he could have the ‘asset’ eating out of his palm long enough to convince him to kill a path to the top of the food chain.

But those words were in the data files that Romanoff and Fury had dumped for public access, and it was only a matter of time before the remaining Hydra cells cracked the encryption and brushed up on their Russian. It’s been four… or was it five months since the data went out? Enough time to decrypt it, that was for sure.

Winter was walking into a trap—there was no way he’d get the file he was looking for. Peirce was smart, there wouldn’t be anything that damning at the storage facility. Only a handful of Hydra agents holed up and making plans for their next move.

Brock continued his manic pacing, worse case scenarios spiralling into the depths of his overactive and frankly _dark_ mind as he waited for news.

He likely wouldn’t receive an update if they found him.

It was possible Winter would kill them all anyway.

Winter was likely to still be pissed at Brock, which… he couldn’t even blame him.

Brock had never used the words before. He’s known them, memorized them, and tried to forget they were in his head. It didn’t work though. Brock hated the programing that made Winter dull and overly complacent (Winter was always a little pliant for Brock), and he never wanted to use it. No, Brock preferred to watch the programing and order fall apart, not build back up.

He had been willing to do it though, if it meant that Winter wouldn’t be recaptured. How selfish and cruel was that? Brock thought, bitterly. He hated that programming so damn much, but he was willing to use it to stop someone else from using it.

He was disgusting.

Hours passed. It felt like years. It felt like seconds.

Rogers burst into the room, angry, coated in dirt and limping, blood oozed from a headwound.

“Tell me how to break the programing,” he demanded.

Heart sinking, Brock sat down heavily, “they got to him”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's looking like closer to 4 chapters but we shall see.
> 
> Also, the title (When I'm Without You) is inspired by When I'm Gone and Here Without You, which are both songs from 3 Doors Down and will probably make an appearance in later chapters.
> 
> What do you think???


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I'm sorry this took so long, school literally kicked my ass for three straight weeks.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: very important for this chapter. ***Sexual assault*** which takes place in a flashback so you'll see it coming and can skip if needed. Starts at "Winter remembers being touched..." but you'll know its coming long before that. In this same scene, Brock uses a lot of ***homophobic language*** when he interrupts the goings ons. He uses faked homophobia as justification for a very violent attack on the men who assault Winter.

“We got him back to the tower, now tell me how to break the god damn programing!” Rogers shouted at Brock, a hysterical edge to his voice.

Brock sighed with relief and defeat in one, shaking his head. Winter was safe. Not exactly living his best life, but safe, nonetheless.

The trouble was that if seeing Rogers hadn’t already broken the programming, then it was unlikely that Rogers would survive the Soldier long enough to do what Brock usually did.

He told Rogers as such.

He didn’t appreciate the advice.

When he came back, not thirty minutes later, he had a black eye.

“Not going well?” Brock asked with a laugh.

“Romanoff tried to use the trigger words, he put her in the hospital,” he seethed.

Brock shrugged, unconcerned, “Give it time,” he said, “It’s only a temporary patch job, it’ll wear off on its own”.

“Not an option,” Stark added, coming into the room, looking a little better than Rogers, if only because he wasn’t covered in dirt—just blood, “Cyborg’s got a broken rib out of alignment and doesn’t seem to know about it,” he said.

“Well fuck,” Brock said, honestly. Super-soldier healing and bones not aligned were not a great combination.

“Tell us what to do,” Stark asked.

Brock shook his head, “It won’t work,” he insisted, “He needs to trust you—if he doesn’t recognize Rogers, he won’t recognize any of you”.

“Will he recognize you?” Stark asked.

Brock looked back at him, incredulous.

No, Brock thought, it was possible that he’d never respond to Brock the same as before now that his face was disfigured like this. He might not recognize him at all.

There was a chance he’d know Brock as his handler though.

“I can pull rank, should calm him enough to treat his ribs until the conditioning wears off,” he said, “That would be a stupid move on your part,” he pointed out, “Since I can tell him to break me out and he will,” he shrugged. He wouldn’t. He would never take advantage of Winter like that, but they didn’t know that.

“He’s in the hulk containment room,” Stark shrugged, “We’re going to lock you in too,” he smiled.

Brock glared, “Get me my uniform,” he growled recognizing a lost battle when he saw one.

It felt unbelievably good to be in something that wasn’t cotton scrubs for once, even if his uniform chaffed the damaged nerves of the burn scars that covered his right leg and most of his back. It wasn’t the one he’d had on all those months ago, but he assumed that they’d raided his apartment for information a while ago so it made sense that they had it.

His STRIKE team jacket was missing from the ensemble, he thought as he was led to a glass room. Maybe that was a pointed gesture, taking away the yellow and green SHIELD insignia.

It wasn’t.

Winter was wearing it, complete with ‘Rumlow’ printed in white thread at the bottom of the patch. That jacket had been in his apartment, that he was sure of. It wasn’t the reinforced Kevlar jacket, but his everyday-around-the-office or light mission jacket.

If it had been a different situation, Brock thinks his brain might have blue-screened at the sight.

Alas, Winter was trying to punch through the glass, abruptly stopping at the sight of Rumlow and a few nondescript security posing as his command.

Getting into the room was a two-step process. Door one, open and closed, door two, open and closed.

Winter stood at attention, every ounce the Soldier, order and pain lined the tension in his body.

“Status report,” Brock barked.

“Sustained injury on an unknown mission, Commander,” he replied, voice rough from screaming.

Brock nodded, “So I hear,” he said, “Sit,” he directed.

So, at least Winter recognized him.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

He knew he was being watched, but tried to pretend he wasn’t. This was familiar. This was them.

Winter sat on one of the little round cushions in the room. There was little else but those and a pile of blankets.

He eased his jacket from Winters shoulders, the man made no sound.

“Peirce and Rollins are both dead,” he informed.

Winter stiffened, then looked confused by his own reaction.

“I’m your handler,” he said, “Hydra’s a fuckin’ mess, everybody’s fighting for Peirce’s job,” he more or less told, “Everybody’s fighting for you, too,” he said.

Winter nodded, “I don’t remember the mission you sent me on,” he informed, “I was ambushed, and there was two factions after me,” he explained, “I thought they wanted the intel I collected, but they took me out and brought me here,” he said, “I still have the file,” he reached for the jacket, pinky finger visibly broken. He pulled a crumpled folder from the inside pocket.

Broke accepted it and set in behind himself.

This gave the Soldier a pause. He didn’t understand why his handler was ignoring valuable information, or why Rumlow didn’t at least check he’d retrieved the right file. The Soldier couldn’t remember the mission parameters, making his intel unreliable. His handler should be checking the file—why wasn’t the handler checking the—

“What are your injuries,” the handler said instead.

Confused, but knowing well not to show it the Soldier reported, “Broken rib, two broken fingers, shallow stab wound to the right shoulder, and the arm is infected again,” he listed.

Brock nodded, took out the medical kit he’d been given and set to work cutting the shirt free of Winter’s body. There was a finger splint in the kit, “I’m going to have to set your fingers and your rib,” he warned, “want to bite down on something?” he asked.

The handler asked.

The handler was delivering first aid.

Handler’s did not deliver first aid.

Did they?

He looked at the handler, who he knew was Commander Rumlow though he did not know why he knew that. He knew this handler though. He remembers first aid with Rumlow—maybe before he was a handler because handlers did not administer first aid.

“We’ve done this before,” he said instead of answering.

Brock nodded. That was Winter’s programming slipping, he could tell “More times then I care to count, kid,” he sighed.

Winter nodded, “Your belt,” he said to answer the original question.

Which meant he was in considerable pain and looking at the infection around the seam of his metal arm, Brock was sure he knew why.

Brock removed the black leather belt from his pants, it already had Winter’s teeth marks in it, and the Solider found them immediately and traced the outline.

The Soldier knew the marks. The Soldier knew this handler, but the handler looked different. This was Commander Rumlow—but it did not look or sound exactly like the Rumlow that was a faded shape in the back of his mind. Still, he knew Rumlow—and he knew Rumlow was patient.

Rumlow was _not_ a handler. Handler’s were not patient.

He did not know what Rumlow was.

“What happened to your face?” Winter asked quietly, tentative and nervous.

“Building fell on it,” Brock shrugged, “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said.

The soldier remembers that tone. It was not a handler’s tone, but he did not know what tone it was.

He knew that Rumlow did not always look like this, but he knew that Rumlow was patient and he knew that Rumlow had never looked _bad_.

The soldier looked at the belt in his hands. He knew this too. He was… he was almost sure that he was looking at his own teeth marks in the leather. Damaging it—permanent in a way that the Soldier himself was not.

It was a nice belt, yet the handler had allowed the Soldier to mark it. Was allowing him to mark it again.

“It… doesn’t look bad,” Winter mumbled, then lined his mouth up and bit down in the same spot on Brocks belt, as if to prove to himself they were in fact _his_ teeth marks.

Brock failed not to duck his head shyly at the compliment. He… hated his fucking face like this. Half burned and disfigured, barely concealed with a patchy beard.

Brock focused on setting Winter’s fingers, they were going to heal like that if he didn’t.

Winter did little more than grunt, but Brock mumbled an apology anyway. He got the splint on and wrapped three of Winter’s fingers together to support the other.

“Lay on your back,” he directed, and Winter went without pause.

He had a dead look in his eye, Brock hated it.

His rib was out of alignment and trying to heal, and it took more pressure then he really wanted to use to shift it back into place. Winter made a high-pitched, kicked-animal sound and Brock cringed, “Sorry, buddy,” he soothed, “just lay there for a minute,” he said, running his fingers through Winters hair which was matted with dirt and blood.

Winter continued to breath shallowly through his nose, teeth clenched around the belt.

When the pain had passed, and his body was set on repairing the bone, Brock moved on to the next wound.

The ‘shallow stab wound’ was a centimeter deep into his right pectoral muscle, dragged along his chest another four centimeters towards the centre of his chest, oozing blood at a slow, but steady rate.

Winter could heal quickly, but for some reason, he was prone to infection—the arm was probably what caused it. Brock wasn’t sure the arm was ever _not_ infected, and just flared up from time to time to make Winter even more miserable.

He rinsed the blood away with a gentle stream of sterile water, then gave a small warning and set to disinfecting the wound with antiseptic. He used two sutures to close the gash the best he could—stitches would get infected he knew, and then bandaged the wound.

He gently moved Winter’s metal arm until it was raised over his head, he was pliant on the floor like a rag doll. The scar tissue where metal met the tender flesh on his side was red and puffy, puss was gathering at the seam.

Brock did his best, even knowing it would do nothing to stop the infection from spreading and hurting. He cleaned it and bandaged the whole thing, knowing Winter would remove the bandage when he regained his memory.

Brock got a pillow under Winters head and removed the belt from his mouth.

Winter stopped him from pulling it away completely and examined the impression of his mouth briefly before releasing Brock’s wrist.

The Soldier looked at the damage he had done, saw his teeth marks and how they lined up perfectly, deepening the impression of him on this item that belonged to his handler.

That belonged to Rumlow.

“Anything else broken or bleeding?” he asked.

Winter shook his head but didn’t speak.

Brock set a gentle hand on Winters abdomen, stoked the skin gently with his thumb. Winter’s brow furrowed with confusion for a moment, then his eyelids slipped shut.

This handler… this Rumlow… he wasn’t like the other handlers. He was delivering first aid, he was talking to the Soldier, he had allowed the Soldier to do irreversible damaged to his own equipment. He was touching the Soldier and it did not hurt. His wounds ceased to ache, the infection that burned seemed soothed wrapped in tight gauze. Gentle. What did that even mean? He wasn’t sure—but he knew that Rumlow was being gentle.

He was touching, and it felt…

The soldier did not know what he felt. He knew only pain and this was not pain and yet it was not simple pressure either. It seemed void of all things the Soldier knew.

This touch felt like Rumlow. These things were connected somehow.

“You’re alright, kid,” Brock soothed.

“I know you,” he whispered, quiet and pained.

“Yeah, it’s okay though,” Brock assured.

The handler—no, Rumlow, was calling him by names that were not his title. Did he have a name?

Rumlow was touching his hair, fingers against his scalp and though he did not look at this handler who was Rumlow but was a different Rumlow than he remembers, he knew what that face looked like when he touched the Soldier.

His memory had been damaged in his mission today—he knew that. He knew he belonged to this handler who was not a handler and who touched him and was patient.

He knew exactly what Rumlow’s face looked like when he touched the Soldier, but that face had not been scarred and hurt.

He knew what Rumlow’s face looked like when he was hurt too.

He thinks he remembers Rumlow touching him and Rumlow being hurt together.

“I remember kissing you,” he whispered, “I—I don’t think I’m supposed to,” he confessed.

Brock hummed gentle, “Yeah, you’ve kissed me,” he confirmed, “Peirce told you not to” he filled in.

“I did it anyway?” Winter said, question on his voice.

“You did it before he told you not to,” he said. “Peirce didn’t know, when he found out he made Rollins your handler for a while—but they’re both dead,” he reminded.

“So I can kiss you now?” he asked.

Brock should say no, but Brock never said no to Winter.

“If you want,” he said instead.

Winter hummed, “I might,” he sighed, “What’s my mission?” he asked next.

Rumlow continued to brush a hand through Winters hair, “Just heal,” he said, “Rest,” he added.

“Cryo?” Winter asked, emotionless.

“No,” Brock assured, “No more cryo, no more chair,” he said.

Winter’s brows furrowed and he kept his eyes closed. The lights in here were blinding even for Brock, and he wasn’t the one staring up at them. It made it hard to tell if there was any change happening in Winter’s eyes.

Brock hoped he could break that programming one more time. He hoped Winter would kiss him one more time. He hoped for a lot of things he didn’t deserve to see or have or hold.

He traced patterns against Winter’s skin.

Where pain built the order of the Soldier… _pleasure_ built the chaos of Winter.

Another five minutes of silence, the rough pads of Brock’s fingers scrapping gently across soft and heated flesh. He could barely feel the texture of Winter’s skin through the damage done by the fire, but he remembers the softness. Remembers thinking how strange it was that something so hard and deadly felt so unbearably soft.

Winter was not hard and deadly, although the soldier was. Winter was unbearably soft.

“Brock,” Winter rasped.

“I’m here,” he said, immediately.

“I should have listened to you,” he groaned, rubbing his face with his flesh hand, “I hate when you’re right,” he complained, unmoving.

Brock couldn’t help but laugh, Winter was back.

It was the final relief Brock needed. Tension left his body in a rush. Winter was back. He was okay.

“I told you so,” Brock said, singsong.

Winter cracked an eye, “shut up and kiss me,” he muttered.

Brock was leaning forward instinctively, but stopped himself—remembering where they were, “We’re being watched,” he reminded.

“That’s nice,” Winter said, and tugged Brock the rest of the way until their lips met.

Winter tastes coppery, likely blood on his teeth, but he also tastes like something that was just uniquely _Winter_ , sharp and sweet all at once, and his lips were pouty and plush and fit perfectly against Brock’s and for a moment he forgot about everything. Forgot where they were, what they were, forgot that Winter had nearly been taken, forgot that Brocks face was a half melted and deformed, he forgot he was waiting to die and that Winter needed to move on without him.

He forgot everything but the shape of Winter against him.

“Get off of him,” Rogers voice came from the doorway.

Winter slowly released his hold and let Brock sit back.

“Cool it, Captain Cockblock,” Winter grumbled.

Rogers face, which was distorted in anger, morphed into surprise.

“You remember me?” He asked, now passed the second door.

“How could I forget,” Winter drawled like he really wanted to know.

“You did,” Rogers reminded, deadpan, “You put six agents in the hospital, including Natasha,” he said, stern.

Winter cringed, “Sorry,” he mumbled, sitting up and shuffling closer to Brock who picked up the jacket and helped ease it up Winters arms to limit the strain on his ribs and arm. It was better then nothing, even though he’d prefer to be buried under about ten different layers of cloth right now.

Winter had fucked up. His handler—no, Rumlow—no, Brock had told him not to go after Hydra and he had. Now he’d hurt people. People who weren’t supposed to be hurt and now Peir—no, that wasn’t the secretary. That was Rogers. Rogers was pissed off and looming and Brock had no weapons and Winter had no weapons.

Rogers opened his mouth to say something else, but Stark made his own appearance.

“Team meeting!” he cheered, “Come on, take a seat, Cap, Bruce is on the way up with Sam,” the billionaire tossed another cushion to Rogers and plopped down himself.

Winter moved closer to Brock until they were pressed side by side against the glass wall. Brock stamped down the urge to wrap his arm around him.

“We are not having a team meeting in here with a prisoner,” Rogers growled.

Winter pressed closer to Brock, a small yelp escaping his throat.

The soldier was a prisoner—but he was not supposed to be here? He didn’t understand, the secretary never let him understand, he always made it impossible to follow orders and then Winter would mess up and he was messing up now and he was a prisoner but he wasn’t in prison and the secretary was upset.

Brock noticed the blond was the only one standing, still in uniform with the shield, Winter was cowering and afraid. Not the Soldier but not himself either. Brock snarled at the captain, moved forward and felt Winter tuck himself closer.

Winter knew Brock, and knew that Brock’s orders made sense and he was patient and he—he let Winter touch, and so he did.

“Cap,” Stark said, serious, when Rogers snarled back at Brock, “Barnes,” he hissed a reminder.

That seemed to snap the man to attention, and then he noticed the two hundred pound assassin trying desperately to hide behind Brock and promptly slid to the floor. Brock and Winter were pretty similar height and build, not accounting for the bulk of his metal arm, but that didn’t give Winter a lot of room to cower.

Wilson and the guy Brock recognized as Bruce Banner came in a moment later, furthering Winter’s panic. The metal arm came up around Brocks chest in effort to shield his human shield as he jammed his other arm between the glass and Brock’s back. It hurt, and Brock had to lean forward to escape the contact even though he wished he didn’t have to. Winter just shimmied farther into Brock’s space, practically hiding behind him.

“Woah,” Wilson said, and dragged Banner to the floor. The two crawled to the pile on cushions and took their seats.

“Come on, buddy,” Brock said softly, “bad time for a freak out,” he said turning into Winter in effort to create some semblance of privacy, “really bad time,” he stressed, “all your friends are here,” he explained, “they ain’t gunna hurt ya,” he went on, Winter just whimpered.

“Oh, good lord,” he sighed, “You’re makin’ me look bad,” he grumbled without any heat. He pulled until Winter came out from behind him, tucking the other man’s head into Brock’s shoulder and running a gentle hand up his spine.

“What happened?” Wilson whispered.

Brock glared more pointedly at Rogers.

“He has PTSD, what did you fuckin’ expect,” Brock grumbled.

“He was doing fine a minute ago,” Stark said, matching Brock’s volume.

Brock glared even harder at Rogers.

“What did I do?” Rogers asked, whispering and sounding more like a hiss.

“Did you want the list?” he spat.

He held Winter a little tighter, a little too protective not to be noticed.

“Steve, buddy,” Wilson said, “Lose the shield for now, alright?” he said.

Rogers finally got a clue, nodded, “I’ll be back,” and left completely. Winter didn’t so much as flinch or stutter in his breathing. It was behaviour Brock was familiar with. Winter curled up as small as he could and locked every muscle into place so he wouldn’t shake or cry or flinch back from the hits that he knew were coming. They got bored if he was unresponsive.

_Brock remembers the STRIKE team beating Winter too many times for him to remember them all, but too few that he could have lost count of them. Too few for him to have stopped it, apparently._

_“You’re back late,” Pierce remarked one particular instance, waiting at the stronghold where the “Asset” was kept like a worried father sitting up in the living room, a single lamp on to catch his kid sneaking in past curfew._

_Rollins stood looming behind Winter who in turn stood obediently behind Brock, head down, body stiff. The rest of the team were milling about, unloading their gear._

_Brock couldn’t lie about what happened. Not with so many witnesses, with a team as disloyal as STRIKE. They all wanted Brock’s job. They’d jump at the sound of him lying to Peirce. Smelling opportunity. That’s what he told himself when he made himself reply. Some sick comfort in having Winter at his back, so neither could see the others face._

_“There were complications with the Asset, sir,” Brock forced out. “STRIKE had to step in to get it done without casualties, but the mission was a success. The package is secured with the team in Jersey,” he relayed, professional and careless at the same time. The image Brock worked hard to create._

_“I see,” Peirce hummed, “then he should face disciplinary action, yes commander?” he inquired with a small uptick of a smile._

_But it wasn’t a question._

_“Yes, sir,” something vile lurched in Brocks stomach, yet he didn’t move at all._

_“And your team? They did well?”._

_“Of course, sir. STRIKE is well adapted, we can handle far worse,” he replied, prompt and easy. **So fucking easy**. He was sick at how easy lying was._

_Pierce smiled fully now, sharp and cruel, but it was not meant for Brock. It was directed at Winter._

_“Well then, they should be rewarded, shouldn’t they?” he smiled some more, “Let them take out any frustrations with the Asset, Rumlow. It’s only fair—he’s the reason you’re all here late, after all”._

_Brock could feel the restless energy of the team grow at that, despite acting like they weren’t listening. Peirce smiled sharp and predatory at Winter, watching the tension that was likely growing in his shoulders, down his spine. All the places that felt doused in ice water on Brocks own body._

_Peirce nodded, pleased with himself, not even waiting for Brock’s reply, “Good, then bring him in for cryo prep. The techs are on over-time so chop chop,” he joked, warm and open as he so often was. He left a moment later, having spared no one but the trembling “Asset” a second glance._

_With Peirce gone, it was somehow harder to breathe._

_“Get on your knees,” Brock directed Winter, neither met the others eye. At least this way he wouldn’t be brought down by a harsh kick to the knee, or the dizzying pain of electricity._

_He opened his mouth to say something to the team, Winter flinched at the crackle of a stun baton prompting laughter through the group. He’d tell them they had limited time, to hurry up, not draw this out, he was tired, wanted to go the fuck home, something to make this over faster, but he knew they’d just hit harder, meaner, inflict more damage faster. He clamped his mouth shut._

_“Something to say, boss?” Rollins asked, raising a brow._

_Brock shook his head, let out a chuckle that was born of untraceable nervousness, “Just get on with it, ya sick fucks,” he rolled his eyes._

_They all knew Brock didn’t take part. They didn’t really think he was soft for it, though they ribbed him from time to time. Brock had killed, had tortured, had shown a love for all things bloody and painful many times in the past. He was just paranoid. That’s what they said._

_Paranoid that one day the Asset will backfire in his hand, cost him life or limb._

_Fuck, maybe they were right._

_Brock doesn’t know what Winter saw in his features in these moments, if he could see through the pain at all. He selfishly, maybe fearfully, hoped that he couldn’t, or that if he did, he wasn’t seeing the same neutral amusement that Rollins was._

_Winter made a yelp of a sound. He always sounded so young. Looked young, younger than he had any right to in these moments. Setting his jaw, clamping it shut, but his eyes were so soft, so open, and miserable._

_Another blow, another chorus of snickers, of sharp barbs that made Brock’s skin crawl._

_“You scream louder than the target did, you know. Just like a little fucking girl.”_

_Brock thinks it was the mention of the target that made him flinch so hard, a young girl whose father hadn’t been able to deliver for Hydra and needed a bit of motivation. It had bugged Winter out. Nearly cost the mission._

_“You got a daddy to scream to, huh? You think if you’re loud enough someone will make it stop? Come save you? You should be thanking us, we saved your ass out there today!”_

_The next time the stun baton came down across his back, likely breaking a rib, Winter made no sound at all. Locked every inch of his body into stillness and likely made the pain worse by tensing bruised, burned and torn muscles around equally bruised and broken bone—if his face was any indication._

_Still… It was a sick fucking relief._

_Winter knew screaming wouldn’t save him. Brock was right there, within arms-fucking-reach and doing nothing to save him. Just listening to the sick cacophony of his screaming, grunts and hisses of pain bouncing off the walls with the static crackle of electricity and manic laughter._

_Looking back, Brock doesn’t know if he was right about why Winter tried so hard not to move, but sure enough, Rollins frowned, hitting him a few more times, Smith stopped spewing his bullshit too, and the group laid off a minute or two later._

_Brock remembers the STRIKE team beating Winter and doing **nothing**. _

Brock can do something now, he thinks. Anything is better than what he did before, really. He gently dug his fingers into the tense muscles around Winter’s right shoulder, felt him shiver and start to relax.

“You actually care about him,” Stark said with awe.

Brock looked up to glare at him and saw he had the file Winter had gone after.

“What is that?” he asked. He hadn’t bothered to look at it, too busy tending to Winter’s wounds and soothing the aggression.

“Peir—”

“Don’t say that name,” he growled.

Stark raised a hand in surrender, “The secretary was doing an investigation on you, and well,” he nodded to the ball of man in his arms, “him,” he said.

“Well, that’ll damn me to death, I’m sure,” he muttered.

Stark hummed, “A lot of references to other files,” he mumbled, “Jarvis, grab these from the agents raiding the storage facility, would you?” he asked his glasses. Brock knew he had some kind of AI with him all the time, so assumed Stark hadn’t gone crazy.

Stark slid the file across the floor.

Brock dared flip open the file, and yeah—that was exactly what this was. Peirce had begun launching an internal investigation on Brock, interviewing other members on the STRIKE team. ‘Interviewing’ Winter looking for signs of disloyalty. Winter must have remembered being asked about Brock and knew to look for the file.

Rogers came back, out of the suit and without his shield, and took his seat without comment, even as he glared at Brock the whole time.

Brock turned his attention to Winter, aiming to coax him out of his shell.

Brock eased Winters hands free from where they were clutched in Brocks shirt. Carefully, he removed the splint and tape from his fingers, finding the bruising completely gone. Winter tucked his freed hands into the sleeves of the jacket.

“Where’d you get this, anyway?” he mumbled tucking his own hands into the jacket to gently prod at the yellowing bruising on Winter’s ribs.

“Your apartment,” Winter rasped.

Winter took a few slow, steadying breaths.

“Okay?” Brock checked in.

“Okay,” Winter nodded.

His eyes scanned the room. The metal arm whirred loudly in the silence as it recalibrated.

Winter shifted until he had his back against Brock’s chest, sitting on the floor between Brock’s thighs. His demeanour completely changed, covering Brock now instead of seeking safety.

Winter was a mess in a lot of ways.

When he _wanted_ to be. When he could afford to be.

It seemed he was done with that for the time being.

Now, Winter gave off a confident, challenging aura. Posture languid and relaxed, but barely contained deathly strength. Brocks jacket, and no shirt, jeans with someone else’s blood on the leg.

He had his head tipped back on Brock’s shoulder in what could be mistaken for submission but was really just a dare. Brocks own thighs bracketed Winter’s sprawled body and Brock leveled a flat, passive look at the Avengers, cheek pressed to Winter’s temple, arms wrapped loose around his waist.

Brock assessed the room and the huddled group of “heroes” a few feet away, whispering aggressively at one another before Brock looked down at Winter to catch his eyes, “When were you there?” he asked, barely whispering against the shell of his ear.

“After Hydra fell, went to wait for you,” he mumbled, still glaring at the group of uncomfortable heroes whose whispering he could likely hear just fine.

Brock felt his heart clench at the thought, but also, “That was stupid,” he growled.

_Winter remembers mourning in Brock’s apartment._

_Prior to the fall of SHIELD and Hydra, Winter had been there twice, when the stars all aligned and the fates allowed them the time together._

_Brock’s place was small, it was very practical, and held very little in the way of personal touches._

_It was too small to have company over, which gave Brock the excuse to avoid spending too much time with friends. It was heavily locked and secured, which could be chocked up to the gun safe in the bedroom or the amount of time Brock spent on away missions._

_There was nothing that made the space distinctly Brock’s. Nothing that separated this apartment from any other single forty-five year old man’s one-bedroom walk up. Nothing but the memory of Brock in this space held sentimentality._

_That, and his scent on the sheets. His clothes in the closet._

_A stack of CD’s and an old player._

_A personal touch, a relic from the early 2000’s disguised as inattentiveness._

_The first day, Winter set up the scanner he stole to monitor Hydra’s comms. The second, he cleaned his gear and himself. The third, he curled up in Brock’s clothes, in Brock’s bed, and hoped._

_The forth day he picked up a cracked plastic CD case from the top of the pile. He recognised it’s plain black cover and flaming orange and yellow stripe beside the bold white text right away._

_The space didn’t lack sentimentality, if you knew where to look._

_The case was empty. The disc already in the player._

_Keeping stolen goods from a hijacked car. Winter clicked his tongue, smiling to himself and let the music play quietly in the space._

_The first song that played was the song that had interested Winter when they first heard in it in a stolen little sedan fifteen years ago._

_He wasn’t sure the song applied to them anymore, though._

_…So hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong. You can hold me when I'm scared, you won't always be there, so love me when I'm gone…_

_The fifth day, the news came that Brock was dead, and he thought maybe he jinxed it, as the song did still apply._

_The sixteenth day, Winter dragged himself out of Brock’s bed. It smelled less like B and more like Winter now anyway._

_He took Brock’s clothes, as much as he could fit in the backpack he found under the bed. Took Brock’s jacket, his dog tags from the military, the CD in it’s cracked case, and as much ammo as he could without making it look like someone had raided the supply._

_When he left, the apartment held even less in the way or personal touches than when he arrived._

_Unless you counted the few stray hairs and tear stains on the pillow._

Winter felt the vibration of Brock’s rough growl against his back and smiled, “Yeah, and so was making me think you were dead,” he replied simply.

Brock didn’t bother to feel ashamed and pressed a kiss to Winter’s temple, “Sorry,” he rumbled.

“Can we get on with the team meeting, Stark?” Rogers hissed, glaring at Brock and Winter.

Stark nodded, “Right!” he said, cheery, “I’m looking more into these Hydra files—and if it turns out that Barnes here is not actually Harley Quinn, and Scarface over there is a decent human being, I think we can use them,” he said, straight to the point.

“Did you miss the part where every Hydra agent and his dog knows how to trigger his programing?” Brock said, deadpan. Winter smoothed a hand down his leg in comfort.

“We were hoping you’d know how to fix that,” Wilson said.

Rogers frowned, “You have a point, Bucky can’t go through life with those trigger words—anyone could get the drop on you like that,” he pointed out.

“Not my name,” Winter hissed.

“Not the time,” Brock soothed.

Winter frowned but said nothing.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Brock said honestly, “The soviets started it,” he explained, “It’s a temporary patch, a failsafe in case the soldier turns on a handler,” he said hating that he didn’t have the answers they needed. Resentful that they didn’t just _know_ how to fix it either, “The secretary, Rollins and me, were the only ones alive who knew those words—but there was information about ‘em in the files that got dumped online,” he said, resentful about _that_ too.

“So, it can’t be fixed?” Winter asked, voice small.

Rogers opened his mouth, but Brock beat him to it because as much as he was floundering, he knew that was not true, “No, it can be—I just don’t know how,” he admitted, “I know it’s basically just… fuckin’ Pavlovian conditioning or whatever,” he said, “It doesn’t actually do anything to you, it just tricks you into thinking your in the chair,” he said.

“How?” Rogers asked.

“Because those words are the only thing I can remember when they put me in it,” Winter mumbled.

“You’re sure it’s just basic conditioning?” Banner asked, “Because that’s an easy fix,” he said.

Brock raised an eyebrow, “Pretty sure,” he said, “It’s what we was told, anyway,” he said.

He remembers Peirce giving a whole fucking speech on Pavlov and his dogs, showing off what he could do to the Solider when he started slipping. The thing was, Peirce preferred to use the chair. Said the ‘Asset’ didn’t scream enough without it. Brock felt they were pretty fucking close.

“Then all we have to do is say the words enough times that little Albert’s brain catches on that there’s no chair,” Stark said.

Brock tensed, wrapped himself further around Winter, “No,” he growled, “It hurts him,” he spat, “You don’t know that it’ll even work,” he added.

For all he was expecting that the supposed genius would have the answer to this problem, Brock revolted the idea of… that.

Stark raised an eyebrow, “You already reconditioned him to respond to you,” Stark said.

“I never fucking hurt him,” he growled.

Then promptly realized he’d fallen directly into Starks trap.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Was that an admission, I heard?” Stark grinned.

Brock glared.

Supposed genius indeed.

“But, no really,” Stark said, “You have conditioned him, that’s why the ‘induced amnesia’ breaks so easily,” he said, “You’ve spent fifteen? Twenty? years being nice to him—he see’s you and his mind pairs that with feelings of kindness, but of course he doesn’t have any memories of kindness—so the amnesia starts to abate in effort to provide a memory to associate with the feeling,” he explained.

“When did you become an expert on—”

“Last night,” Stark interrupts.

And yeah, maybe that made sense considering what they knew of Winter’s programming.

Brock didn’t like the idea though.

Winter nodded, recalling the very confusing boners he kept popping for his commander when he wore a specific pair of pants, “That explains those pants…” he muttered out loud. He felt Brock’s laughter rumble in his chest and smiled himself, pressing back into the other man’s chest.

“That would explain why Steve was able to break him out of it on the helicarrier,” Wilson said, “Dumb ass drops his shield and says he’s not gunna fight you,” he grumbles that part, “Barnes wouldn’t have a memory to explain why that was significant—so his brain starts putting the pieces together,” he says.

Winter snorts, “Wow, Rogers,” he says, “Your lack of self preservation was enough to break seventy years of amnesia,” he laughed.

Rogers gapes at him, then snorts his own laugh and nods, “That’s fair,” he chuckled.

“Great, so I’ll get Pepper to get Coulson on the legal end of this, and you two work on breaking the conditioning,” Stark said with a clap, “I’ll even let you out of the basement if Barnes asks real nice,” he said.

“Just like that, we’re supposed to be cool?” Wilson asks.

“I mean, I’m going full suicide squad here and putting a tracker in Scarface,” Stark says, which was fair—Brock was still Hydra.

“Does that make me Harley Quinn now?” Brock asked, skeptic.

Stark seemed to mull it over, “It works,” he shrugged, “I’ll be back in a flash,” he grinned and left.

“So, who actually runs this team?” Winter asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We have no idea,” Banner replied.

***

The tracker went in Brock’s fucking foot. It hurt like hell and was impossible to remove without the device that put it in, less he want to cripple himself permanently trying to cut it out. Stark had warned that if he did, he’d never walk the same again.

That was enough of a deterrent not to carve up the bottom of his foot, thanks.

Stark wasn’t kidding when he said Brock could come out of the basement, either.

The Avengers had given Winter an apartment in the tower, one that was made for Barton who was now retired or some shit. Brock was allowed to stay here now too, unless Winter started messing with the security again. Then Brock would be back in his cell.

That was enough of a deterrent not to fuck with Jarvis, thanks.

They’d done an additional sweep through the place when Brock was let inside —finding the bedroom bugged with a mic that the AI assured was not actively recording. Brock figured it didn’t much matter. He was used to constant surveillance by now, and Winter has always been used to surveillance. The bathroom was the only room that didn’t have one. The rest of the lavish apartment had cameras and mics and the AI spoke from the ceiling.

“Let me see how you’re healing,” Brock said roughly when they were alone.

Winter dutifully removed the jacket and slid onto a barstool at the kitchen island.

“How long has this been infected?” He asked.

“Few days,” Winter replied, “Started up while I was on my way back to America,” he said.

Brock nodded, checking the bandage on his chest. It was mostly healed, scabbing over now. Brock removed the gauze, then started poking at his ribs, “Where’d you end up, anyway?” he asked when Winter made no indication of pain.

“Romania,” he answered.

Brock grunted, this god damn kid. He could swear Winter was trying to get caught, “Stupid,” he said.

They’d ended up in Romania once—a mission that was supposed to take two days took ten. It was the longest amount of time Brock and Winter had ever spent together without Winter’s brain being re-scrambled halfway through. It was the two of them and two promising young agents that didn’t last after day four.

Brock had killed them himself.

Well, he’d left one for Winter.

The kid smiled, ducking his head, “I like Romania,” he justified.

Brock just huffed again, “Which is why it’s stupid,” he said.

_Winter remembers Romania._

_He doesn’t deny going back there was stupid, but it didn’t really matter, did it?_

_Romania was a good mission. It was a taste of what life could be like for them together._

_It wasn’t exactly domestic, what with the blood in the carpet, and the armoury of weapons on the couch, but it was them, and it was comfortable._

_It was nice._

_So few things were._

_It hadn’t started out nicely, though. It started with Winter as the Soldier, the Asset. A machine. With two rookie agents._

_The mark had gotten wind of a possible attack coming in from another agency all together. It was fine, because the Asset was equipped to handle far more difficult assignments than this, but it had delayed them by more than a week._

_Young rookie agents get bored easily._

_Brock had warned them not to mess around with the Asset. That being on long missions made the asset unpredictable._

_For some reason they did not heed the warning._

_Cocky, young, overconfident._

_Brock used to be those things._

_He did them without hurting the Asset though._

_Or maybe he did. He **ruined** the Asset._

_He never laid a hand, nor knife to him though._

_These rookie agents did though. A knife. Over and over. It had started as a game between the two, stabbing a knife into the wood of the table between their fingers. When they had gotten bored, they’d tried to rope Winter—the Asset at that point—into conversation, and then into their mindless little game._

_It drew attention to the Soldiers advantageous metal arm. Drew their curiosity._

_The Asset did not understand enough to know not to strip when he was told. Could not distinguish between agents who ranked above or below him._

_Brock had walked in about ten minutes into the two agents exploration of all the places the Asset was metal beneath the flesh. Stabbing a knife into the skin of Winter’s left pectoral between their fingers, finding where he was metal, and where he wasn’t._

_Brock had taken a single breath before pulling the agent up off his feet by his throat._

_Looking back, Winter thinks it may have been an accident, Brock killing the first one. He seemed shocked when the young man stopped chocking and wriggling in his grasp. Shocked, and then insanely **pleased**._

_Winter remembers seeing the pleasure that Rumlow had taken in killing this agent and feeling something like jealousy. The Asset felt nothing like that for the marks he killed._

_The other agent had cowered in fear at first before struggling to hold his gun at Rumlow._

_The Asset didn’t need his memories to know that he wasn’t supposed to let that stand, but he found disarming the agent felt different somehow._

_As if he too was allowed to experience the pleasure of a kill like Rumlow had._

_Rumlow had smiled, warm but sharp and dark in a way that wasn’t anything like the warm, friendly grins that Peirce gave. So Winter crushed the agents throat in his hands too and found himself smiling back._

_That night they disposed of the bodies._

_“Don’t worry about Peirce, they were nothing—plus I’ll tell them they were uh, fucking with the equipment,” Brock mentioned, “Now come on, lets get cleaned up—I’ll teach you how to make breakfast for dinner,” he smiled._

_“Is that different than breakfast for breakfast?” Winter felt confident enough to ask. Something about this Commander was different._

_“By the end of the week, probably not, but I’ll leave that up to you to decide,” Brock had laughed._

_Brock had followed him into the shower, made sure he was thorough cleaning the already healing wounds on Winters chest. Winter had stopped him from exiting the small space once Winter was scrubbed gently clean though. The bar of soap clenched awkwardly in metal fingers and pressed to Brocks chest._

_“Guess I probably stink too, huh, kid?” He asked, taking the mangled soap from Winters hand. Winter stood in the crowded tub and watched the soap build on the other man’s chest with rapt attention. So much so, that his metal hand remained stiffly outstretched towards Brock, limiting the already tiny space._

_It wasn’t until Brocks hands had come up again, tangling in the metal digits, teasing the join of plates with his finger nails to clear the clumps of soap away._

_He met Winter’s eye then, and everything seemed to change. It felt like permission. A permission that extended further than Winter understood or thought possible with such a limited memory._

_Winters flesh hand came up, bypassing the metal and making gentle contact with Brocks chest. His skin felt warmer than the cooling water. Felt hot under the touch._

_“This… nice,” Winter whispered into the stream of water against porcelain, “This is nice,” he repeated to himself._

_Brock didn’t stop him._

_No one stopped Winter at all, not in any capacity, for an entire week._

_Winter explored Brocks body with his flesh hand._

_He had permission to touch._

_He explored Brock’s mouth with his tongue._

_He had permission to **know**._

_He explored Brock’s smile by telling jokes._

_He explored Brocks patience by leaving dishes in the sink._

_He explored his own when Brock left dirty clothes on the bathroom floor._

_He explored his own smile too, when he felt it press against Brock’s shoulder one night, the older man asleep and murmuring into the pillow something about bubblegum._

_He knew that Brock showered every morning and every night but that he never took longer than five minutes and he never used any of the limited hot water unless Winter was with him._

_He knew that Brock didn’t know much Spanish, but that he didn’t really care about understanding what was on the TV when he turned it on at night on account of him falling asleep every time Winter translated it for him._

_He knew he preferred to speak in English anyway, because he was mostly only every speaking to Brock, and if he was going to complain about the little pile of clothes everywhere, Brock should damn well know what he was muttering about anyway._

_He knew that he preferred breakfast for breakfast than breakfast for dinner because he didn’t like rice._

_He knew that Brock walked around while he brushed his teeth in the morning, half dressed and damp from the shower, that his hair was naturally… like that._

_He learned that Brock didn’t like to do anything before his morning shower, but that Winter liked to eat first thing, so Winter learned how to cook instead of relying on Brock._

_He knew that he liked to shower with Brock at night and not alone because Brock was much better at cleaning all the best spots._

_He knew he liked to sleep with socks on and that Brock liked to sleep without._

_He knew that Brock looked absolutely appalled when Winter brushed his teeth and then drank orange juice right after, and so Winter kept doing it because it made them both laugh, even though it was unpleasant._

_That had given Winter a pause, when he’d realised it. That although Winter hated pain, hated the misery of being the Soldier, hated suffering for Hydra, he didn’t mind any such discomfort when Brock smiled at him._

_He knew then what it meant to fight for a cause._

_It was just that the cause Winter thought worth fighting for wasn’t Hydras._

Winter shrugged now in response to Brock’s comment, “I want to shower,” he said it like a request.

Brock nodded, “I’ll take watch,” he said, “You have clean clothes?” he asked.

Winter nodded, and disappeared into the bedroom.

Brock wasn’t allowed any weapons yet, not until they were given the go ahead and Brock was allowed to start moving in on Hydra. It meant Winter’s arsenal was locked up in a safe in the bedroom, a combination that Brock shouldn’t know, but had a feeling he could guess keeping the guns and knives away. It didn’t matter—the kitchen was an armoury of its own.

The AI didn’t say anything about Brock raiding the drawers for a few nicely balanced knives, and he wasn’t planning on taking them out of the apartment anyway so it was likely okay. Brock felt more like himself than he has since he was captured, his own clothes, a few knives and Winter at his side.

When Winter made his way into the over-large bathroom and shut the door, Brock took point outside like he always had before.

Becoming Winter’s handler and commander had its perks. Telling the other agents to keep their eyes to themselves and their mouths fucking shut was one of them. It helped winter to know Brock was outside the door, and Brock did anything to help that fucking kid.

Nearly ten minutes passed and the sound of water hadn’t started up yet. Brock knocked on the door, “You alright, kid?” he called.

No reply.

He opened the door, finding Winter huddled up on the floor, bare foot, but still dressed in his jeans.

He had his head ducked against his knees, hands in his hair.

Brock didn’t say anything, just closed the door behind himself, locked it noisily, and started up the shower.

It didn’t take long for the water to heat, and he knelt in from of the cowering man, untangling his hands from his hair. The metal one took a little longer.

Winter yielded to his touch, made no sound and didn’t fight him when he gently unbent Winters legs. Brock trailed his hands down Winter’s chest and stomach to the button of his jeans and popped it open. Winter made a small sound.

Brock just hushed him, “It’s just me,” he reminded.

Winter went even more lax under his hands, made no comment when Brock slid the blood caked jeans off his legs even when it pulled at the hair of his shin with how the blood had stuck and dried through the denim.

Brock offered his hand, “Come on, up,” he instructed. Winter took his hand and clambered awkwardly to his feet.

“Good,” Brock praised.

He led Winter to the shower, opening the glass door, “In you go,” he said, “Wet your hair,” he directed.

Winter nodded, situating himself to stand under the spray.

Brock found a new bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo. Winter left the shower door open, but the stall was big enough they weren’t flooding the room, just splashing a bit of water onto the bathmat, so he said nothing. He handed over the bottle, “Hair,” he said.

Winter nodded and set to work.

This wasn’t new.

Winter didn’t like being naked, and he didn’t like being naked in large spaces. Too many people could occupy large spaces.

Winter preferred being hosed down with his clothes on if Brock wasn’t with him. Brock was the only one who stopped the Strike team from hurting Winter in these moments. They liked to hurt him when he was naked for some reason. Stepped on him and kicked him. They always used the stun batons when his skin was still wet because they thought it hurt more.

They weren’t allowed to hurt him when Broke was there, though. Brock yelled at them.

Brock had killed agents for trying to touch Winter when he was naked once. In Mexico, maybe. No one ever tried to touch Winter that way ever again, but it didn’t stop them from kicking him and shocking him when he had nothing to separate his frost-bitten skin from their attacks.

_Winter remembers being touched in all the wrong ways, but on one occasion something about it was worse. So much worse._

_They were STRIKE. They weren’t rookie agents, they weren’t disposable. They were valuable, high ranking, and they knew what the Asset was._

_A mindless puppet._

_The first of Hydra._

_“Don’t fucking move or I’ll see if we can reset that fucking cyborg brain of yours with this, huh?” Jackson sneers, the crackle of the stun baton loud and oppressive._

_“Yes sir,” the Asset replied, impassive._

_“Wait—wait, lets make him do it,” Michaels interrupted when Olsen started tugging at the Assets gear._

_“You think he’d do it?” Olsen asked with disbelief._

_“Not like he knows what we’re doing, huh Soldier?” Michaels laughed behind him._

_“Discipline,” the Soldier replied._

_“No, no this is all for fun,” Jackson said, and that meant it would be much worse._

_The Soldier looked around the room, looking for something, someone maybe. Looking for a way out. A mission to succeed at, the chair to make it go away, they cryo tube to let him rest. There was nothing though. Just a filthy green tiled flooring and pink-yellow walls of the safehouse._

_“Strip,” Olsen said._

_“Everything, take it all off,” Michaels added._

_The Soldier didn’t know how not to do what he was told. If he didn’t, the punishment would come too, and then he would hurt twice._

_He complied._

_“Oh, oh that’s hilarious,” Jackson laughed, the stun baton wavering in his grip._

_The Soldier didn’t even think about disarming him. It would be worse if he did._

_The three men circled him, making comments the Soldier didn’t understand._

_He didn’t like it. He had no memory of anything like this. He’d never been naked for something like this. He was tense, anticipating the pain._

_When it came, it wasn’t how he expected it though._

_They were hurting him in places no one ever touched besides in a clinical, brisk way._

_He didn’t look, he stared straight ahead, afraid to see the damage, to see the reality of what was happening. He kept his jaw clenched, kept himself silent even as it got worse. Jackson remained still behind him with the stun baton, but the other two…_

_The door banged open._

_“What the fuck do you think your doing? Is that— Get the fuck off of him, Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is this shit?!” a voice shouted._

_He recognised the voice, distantly._

_“Hey boss, we were just uh, disciplining the Asset here—I know it squicks ya, so why don’t you just come back later, huh?” Michaels said with a grin._

_The Commander then. That was a lie to the Commander though. Unless they had lied to the Asset. That was more likely._

_“Get you fucking hands off him,” the Commander growled, stalking into the Soldiers line of sight._

_The Commander was an intimidating man. Strong, broad, scowling, his voice was rough with his anger—he moved with purpose._

_He snapped his fingers at the man who entered with him, not looking at his second in command, instead he had his eyes trained on Michaels. “Rollins, get him dressed. Lock that fucking door,” he said._

_Rollins raised a brow and complied silently._

_The commander had his own stun baton._

_For some reason, the Asset didn’t flinch when he heard it come to life, though Rollins eyes flashed with worry before he was busy shoving the Asset’s clothes at him, rough and inelegant trying to help rush the process along._

_He didn’t see it all take place, but he heard it._

_The heavy thud and the answering crackle and shout._

_Over and over._

_“Rumlow! Rumlow you’re gonna kill them!” Jacksons voice rang out the only clear voice, the other two sounded garbled. Both the Asset and Rollins looked over then._

_“That’s the fucking plan, Jackson. Should you be fucking next, huh? Did you fucking touch him, you fucking faggot?” The commander growled, low._

_“What? Oh jesus, fuck, boss come on, no, no I didn’t! Jesus fuck man, you can’t—” Jackson babbled._

_“They were killed in action, you fucking hear me? And if any of you’s thinks about ratting back to Peirce, you better be ready to tell him exactly what the fuck I just caught you doing to his precious fucking weapon, yeah?” he seethed, looking at both Rollins and Jacksons, the growing crowd at the entranceway, “‘Cause I got no problem telling Peirce I had to put down a couple of fucking fruits tryin’ to fuck with his shit, but I got a feeling you might find yourself having a different kind of talk,” Brock growled._

_“We’re not fucking fags, Rumlow, relax!”_

_“No? ‘Cause it sure fucking looked like it, his fuckin dick in Olsens hand!” Brock shouted causing the other STRIKE members to whisper furiously, “Get the fuck out of my sight. You’re fucking disgusting. Whore on every fucking corner of this shithole, fuck off with this shit,” he continued to seethe, chest heaving._

_Olsen and Michaels were groaning, struggling to get to their knees. Jackson looked rapidly between Rumlow and the two men he had just started wailing on._

_“Jacksons,” Rollins barked, jerking his head to the door, a final warning. Rollins dragged the asset out of the main room too, along with the gathering crowd._

_There was the bang of a gunshot, more yelling, more of the wet, sickening thud of the stun baton and is electric scream._

_“Rollins, what the fuck is going on?” Someone asked._

_“Like the boss said, unless you wanna be either next, or telling Peirce your deepest darkest secrets,” he said passively._

_“The fuck? We got nothing to do with that shit,” Martin insisted._

_“Whose gonna prove it? The Asset?” Rollins remarked, “Get out of here, he’s pissed, specially you Jackson, best keep your head down till he cools down,” he said._

_“Jesus fuck, what is wrong with him?” someone muttered._

_“My guess? He knows something we don’t about the Asset. Rumlow’s a smart man. And he ain’t soft, not on no one,” Rollins said, lighting a cigarette._

_To emphasize the point, a guttural scream tore through the room._

_The Soldier stood over Rollins shoulder, feeling the phantom pain of hands still on his body. He held himself stiff so he wouldn’t shake, wouldn’t collapse._

_Most of STRIKE left, making like they were told._

_The commander was covered in blood when he entered the kitchen._

_The Soldier thought maybe that’s what he himself looked like after some missions, the ones with blood, the ones where they hosed him off after._

_Rollins shook his head, sighing, “Get cleaned up, I’ll dump ‘em,” he stood._

_Rumlow just grunted, nodding._

_“Stay with Rumlow,” Rollins said, cigarette smoke leaving a trail in his wake._

_The Asset followed on shaking legs to the bathroom where Rumlow led them. He didn’t strip, he didn’t wash up. He sat the Asset down on the closed toilet lid and sunk to his knees in front of him._

_The commander was shaking. Maybe so was the Asset._

_“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, so softly that even with the Soldiers enhanced hearing he could barely hear it. “I’m so fucking sorry Winter, I—fuck, Win, I can’t—I’m sorry,” he continued to whisper and his head was bowed, but the Soldier thought maybe he was crying._

_The Asset didn’t know who Winter was._

_That night, it was probably for the best_.

Sometimes it was enough knowing Brock was on the other side of the door, but in this space—so bright and big and empty—he couldn’t bring himself to follow through with undressing. Contemplated rinsing himself off with his pants still on, but that would be an obvious acknowledgment of how absolutely not okay Winter was.

He suspected Brock knew already, but he didn’t want the man to think he still had to do this for Winter. He’d been doing it for what felt like a lifetime.

Making Winter into a human.

It was hard to be a person without Brock, but he’d been doing his best. These last six months had been a nightmare, for all that he had just escaped a seventy-year-long nightmare.

Still, Brock himself wasn’t in his best shape. He was clearly in pain still, despite whatever advanced medical care he’d received here from the Avengers in their effort to save his life and gain intel on Hydra, it had only been six months since a building had come down on his head. He should be worrying about healing himself, instead of telling Winter how to get clean.

Winter knew how to shower. He does it almost twice a week now.

But when Brock told him how, it somehow felt way easier.

“Body,” Brock said, handing the bar of soap.

Winter rubbed it over his body and rinsed.

Brock raised an eyebrow, “Try again,” he said, looking at where he was still caked in blood from kneeling in a puddle of it.

Taking a deep breath, Winter slowly rubbed himself down and washed more thoroughly then he ever would without Brock checking his work.

When Brock was happy with him, he reached in and shut off the spray of water, handing over a white fluffy towel that was very soft, and Winter immediately rubbed his face in.

Brock chuckled at him and Winter shot a half-hearted glare.

“Soft,” he said.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Brock said.

Winter had found some clothes in the apartment that fit alright, mostly lounge wear. He pulled on the black hoodie and grey sweatpants that were a little tight that he’d procured from the closet.

“You want a shave?” Brock asked.

Winter nodded eagerly. It was difficult to shave with a metal hand and a fear of your own reflection. Brock nodded, motioning for Winter to sit on the counter.

They were roughly the same height, which made this activity a little easier. Winter spread his legs for Brock to slot himself in between. Brock was the only handler who could convince the soldier to let them shave him for missions, but really it was that Winter liked when Brock sat him down and grumbled about Winter being high maintenance while dragging the razor across his cheek. He liked being shaved too, since the mask made stubble very uncomfortable.

He tried to school his expression while Brock lathered him with shaving cream but failed and Brock rolled his eyes and grumbled some more, furthering Winter’s amusement.

Brock tried to focus on his task but couldn’t shake how uncomfortable he felt with Winter’s eyes on his face. He was horribly scarred, looking mean and ugly where he used to look mean and grumpy. The scars on his face and neck were the most healed, and they healed well considering. He’d been in critical condition when the Avengers tracked him down, or so he was told. They’d taken him here and let some genius doctor use him as a Guinea pig for some science healing magic bullshit. It was the only reason he was alive, really.

He had full mobility in his face and neck, his hands could open and close with minimal pain but for the first hour of the morning, and the scaring there was light, his right hand had less nerve damage too, so there was that. His left shoulder and back was scarred the worst, and the burns that spanned his back still angry red, heated, and sore to the touch. He was getting used to the chaffing of fabric though. His left bicep was a mess of burned ink—where his Hydra insignia once sat was now an uneven plane of grey and pink. His front was mostly unharmed but for a small patch of uneven pink flesh on his right hip and thigh.

It wasn’t as bad as it could be.

Still didn’t make having Winter’s eyes on him any fucking easier.

He looked like a fucking monster. He was surprised the Soldier had even recognized him. Even more so was he surprised that he could still help ease the programing away.

When he was wiping the last of the shaving cream from Winter’s jaw, he felt tentative fingers against his cheek and flinched back.

“Sorry,” Winter mumbled.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled and returned to his task, not raising his eyes to meet Winter’s no matter how hard he was trying.

“B,” Winter whispered.

He grunted in response.

He felt Winters hand on his face again, reluctantly tilted his head up. Winter didn’t inspect the scars, instead he leaned forward and kissed him.

It was always Winter who kissed him, he thought fuzzily, even as he deepened it, gripped Winter’s waist and pulled him closer. Winter wrapped his legs around Brock’s hips and it hurt, but not enough to deter him. He did hiss quietly against those pouty lips and apparently that was enough to tip Winter off.

He pulled back slowly, had moved his legs the second he felt Brock tense.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked.

Brock grunted, always the tough guy.

Winter rolled his eyes, “Does your dick work?” he asked, crudely.

Brock growled, “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed.

Winter smirked, “Then get naked,” he said.

Brock chuckled, leaning in and kissing Winter briefly, “No, not here,” he said and then, “Come on, we need to deal with your hair,” he flicked an errant strand of wet tangled hair. He stood back and grabbed a brush, moving to leave the bathroom.

Winter pouted, “What do you mean not here?” he asked, trailing after him.

“If I may interrupt,” the AI sounded when they exited the safety of the bathroom, “Dr. Banner would like to see about the infection on Sargent Barnes’s arm, may I let him in?” The faintly British voice asked.

They both jumped, and Brock had a knife in his hand that Winter didn’t know he had.

Brock growled, putting the knife away, “That’s going to get old,” he grumbled, “Sure, why the fuck not,” he said.

The door opened on its own, and Winter did not like that it could do that.

Banner came in looking awkward, “Hi,” he said, “Please don’t stab me,” he said politely.

Brock had the knife in his hand again, and hastily put it away at Winter’s pointed glare.

“I’m just going to take a swab of the infection and I’ll get started on an antibiotic that will work with the serum, if that’s alright,” he said looking at Winter.

Winter stared at him, confused pout on his face and head tilted slightly like a curious dog.

“Why,” he said simply.

Banner didn’t seem to be expecting that reaction and actually looked to Brock for a brief second like he might have the answer.

“Because you’re in pain,” he said slowly, “And your arm is infected”.

Winter took a step back, “It doesn’t effect mission performance,” he said, “It will heal,” he said.

“No,” Brock growled, “It never heals, Winter,” he said seriously.

Winter shook his head, another step back, “It doesn’t effect—”

“Winter,” Brock barked. Winter froze, realizing he had been moving further and further away from Banner, putting furniture between them. He was nearing the wall, and Brock knew if he hit a wall he’d lose his mind again.

Winter straightened, taking a breath to steady himself.

“What if Rumlow takes the swab for me?” Banner asked, holding up a thin paper package.

Winter looked at Brock and nodded but didn’t say anything.

Brock held up a hand for Banner to toss the swab and test tube, not taking a step closer the man capable of transforming into a giant rage monster.

“Stay where he can see you,” Brock warned the doctor.

Winter still looked tense, “Come on,” Brock said quietly, “let’s get this over with,” he said.

Winter nodded, took his arm out of the sweater but not pulling it up over his head.

Brock sighed, “Don’t be difficult,” he muttered.

Winter’s mouth ticked up in a smile, “Impossible,” he said, but ducked his head out of the sweater.

Banner tired to direct Brock, to which he replied, “I know what I’m doing, doc,” in a gruff voice.

“Right,” Banner said, “Does this happen often?” he asked.

Brock grunted an affirmative, “He’s prone to infection”.

“How was it treated?”

Brock grunted more aggressively, putting the swab into the tube, “It wasn’t,” he said and tossed the tube back. “You got anything I can wrap this with?” he asked.

Banner nodded and tossed a roll of gauze. Winter rolled his eyes. Brock paid no mind and wrapped the seam of his arm gently before letting Winter burrow back into his sweater.

“It won’t take me long,” Banner said, “I should have some antibiotics ready by tomorrow,” and then he was leaving.

Winter was nervous and on edge, so Brock didn’t give him time to spiral.

“Go sit on the floor, I’ll brush your hair,” he said.

Winter loved when Brock brushed his hair. It was rare that he could get away with doing it, but it was one of Winter’s favourite sensations.

_Brock remembers brushing Winter’s hair the first time._

_It was a surveillance mission that was to end in a clean distance assassination. Brock was set up on the roof of some thirty story high-rise with Winter, watching, waiting for the right moment._

_A tropical storm was incoming though, and the winds were picking up. It’s why the Asset had been woken up. No one else could make a shot in these conditions, especially not if the rain started before they got their opening._

_The first day was a bust. The target didn’t move at all. Instead, they’d spent nearly nine hours on the rooftop, Winter peering through his scope, oblivious to the growing state of his hair until he made to readjust and found the dark strands whipping into his line of sight._

_That night, he’d looked so goddamn cranky._

_Pouting and aggressive, trying to tie it all back for the next day, but it was too matted from the wind for the garret wire he was using to grip it._

_“This isn’t sustainable, Commander. Permission to cut it?”._

_Selfishly, Brock did not want to grant it. He liked Winters hair, even though it was impractical. Maybe because it was impractical._

_Also, Peirce kept it long for a reason. Brock hadn’t known then that it was due to the fact the Asset had a famous face, and fuck—maybe if he’d paid more attention in school he would have known, but he hadn’t, and so he didn’t._

_“Let me see if I can get the knots out first, alright?” Brock offered, motioning him closer on the couch._

_Winter came willingly, gave Brock his back when he asked, completely trusting._

_But it wasn’t trust, was it? It was just that the Asset never knew any better._

_“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” Brock said, not really thinking, just setting out on his task. Winters hair was surprisingly healthy. Natural oils he supposed. The strands came apart easily under Brocks teasing fingers. He was gentle, taking his time. They had all night, anyway._

_Winter never spoke up about it hurting, but he did start to shake very softly._

_“Does it hurt?” Brock asked, hands stilling. He’d suck it up and cut it if that was the case. They couldn’t compromise the mission, and Brock refused to hurt him over something so trivial._

_“No, sir,” the Asset replied, sounding soft, shaky, unsteady—not the asset at all._

_Winter. Chaos and emotion, disorder, prison._

_“Good,” Brock said, meaning more than the simple word could possible portray but somehow Winter could sense that._

_“Good?” he asked, voice high and nervous._

_“I don’t want to hurt you,” Brock said, matching his lowered volume, soothing as much of that fear as he could with gentle hands in Winters hair. Gentle wasn’t exactly a word he would use to describe himself, considering all the things he uses his hands to do, but then, the Asset was gentle—Winter was gentle—and he had done those things too. He allowed himself this when he was with Winter. Only when he was with Winter._

_A long time passed in silence but through it all tension bled from Winters posture like wax pooling and spilling from the heat of a nearby flame._

_“You never do,” Winter said after a long while, voice thick and words slow._

_“That’s right. I never want to hurt you, Winter,” Brock whispered back, needing them both to know it was the truth._

_“You never do hurt me, B,” he said, turning to catch Brocks eye, expression full and open, “never,” he whispered now, and pressed a soft kiss to Brocks lips._

_He turned back around, giving Brock access to his hair again before he’d even had a chance to reciprocate._

_When Brock finished detangling Winters hair, the man was lax and sighing, eyes slipping closed until his head fell forward, chin to chest and he snored softly in sleep._

_Brock smiled, using the thin piece of wire and tying it into a little bow around the bulk of Winters hair._

_“Beautiful,” Brock had remarked to himself._

_Brock brushed his hair out again the next night and tied it all back because he could._

_It was the strangest thing, another nine months later, to see Winter come out of cryo with a piece of garret wire still tied in a bow around silky soft hair._

It was one of the many ways Brock had broken down the Soldiers programing over the years and when it was Winter –all chaos and smiles—the act always put him right to sleep.

Sleep never came easy to Winter, the Soldier was trained not to sleep unless he was in cryo—it made missions longer than two days difficult because he was told he needed to sleep, but knew he was trained not to and it messed with his head the way Peirce liked to do.

Brock didn’t know if he was sleeping now, or if he still stayed awake and alert up until his body gave out completely. He was hoping he’d get Winter to sleep now though, since he knew he hadn’t slept since he got to America and was willing to bet he didn’t sleep during his travel either.

Winter grabbed a cushion from the couch and set it on the floor in front of where Brock was settling on the couch. It hurt to lean back, and he had the excuse not to since he was leaning forward to brush Winters hair anyway. Still, that hurt a bit too, but he was successful in hiding the wince.

With Winter settled between his thighs, he started combing the damp hair with his fingers before going at it with the brush.

Winter hummed happily and Brock caught a small smile on his face in the reflection of the windows.

Brock loved seeing Winter like this. Clean, in soft clothes and no shoes, no weapons but for a set of throwing knives in the pouch of the over sized sweater, shoulders relaxing in steady increments under Brocks hands.

It was a heady feeling, being able to take apart the Winter Soldier like this. Even more so now with Brock’s disfigurement. It made him feel… something close to invincible, he supposed. A funny thought in a tower of invincible super-heroes.

When Winter smiled, when he laughed, when he rolled his eyes, when he walked with a sway in his hips, when he cried, when he shook, when he wrapped himself around Brock like the a koala, when he slept, when he ate, when he scrunched up his face at the taste of something bad, when he yelled, when he sighed… it all made Brock feel this incredible surge of admiration.

He’s seen the Winter Soldier stone faced, silent, dead eyes, mechanical movements, still, unmoving, awake for days with no signs of exhaustion, feeding tube down his throat, emotionless. He’s seen him kill with efficiency that people who feel and understand their actions can never achieve no matter how fucked up they are.

To make that all fall apart into this man sitting in front on him was the greatest achievement of Brocks life.

He’d long since stopped buying into Hydra and the order and control they were after. World peace didn’t justify that dead look in Winter’s eyes. Nothing did.

Brock would burn the world, reign hell on earth, wreck chaos and destruction worse than the god damn chitauri for Winter.

He never made a move from within Hydra though, and for that he knew he did not deserve to have Winter calm and pliant under his hands right now. He was selfish though, and he’d take every moment Winter would spare him before the guy realized how awful Brock really was.

Brock had planned. Of course he had planned to get Winter out, but he –like Winter—was terrified of Peirce. Different reasons, he knew, but terrified nonetheless. If he was getting Winter out, he was going to be damn sure Peirce never fucking found them.

Glancing at the file Winter had brought, it looks like even six fucking years of planning the perfect get away wasn’t enough to outsmart Peirce. In the end it was only a dead guy who could sneak behind the secretary’s back.

Brock had started his plans as soon as he was told about Project Insight. The project would mean the Winter Soldier was redundant, at least for the next decade. They were going to put him in cryo and there he would be staying until someone smart enough to get past the Insight Carriers surfaced.

Brock was close to becoming Winter’s handler—he’d played his part exceptionally well, after all—and as soon as he heard Peirce’s plans for Winter, Brock was planning how to spring him. A handler could do it. A handler was trusted alone with Peirce’s precious ‘Asset’ and that would give Brock a fighting fucking chance.

He was going to wait until the carriers went up, until it was time for Winter to go under, and that would be it. He’d slip a tech into the cryotube, and no one would open it again for the next ten, maybe twenty years and by that time Brock would either be dead himself or retired and in hiding.

Can’t kill a dead man. If Peirce didn’t know Winter was in the wind, he’d never be targeted.

It would never have worked though. He knew the moment that Winter was put under Rollins that the plan was fucked and he didn’t have time to come up with a new one because it happened a day before the launch.

Knowing Winter was going to be stuck with Peirce alone --if Winter was even alive at that point—had hurt far worse than being caught in an explosion and trapped under blistering metal from half a helicarrier and the parts of the building that hadn’t exploded in his face.

He hadn’t felt his flesh melt for the fear of Winter alone. Hadn’t felt the smoke chocking him for the tightness in his chest from the heartbreak of never seeing Winter again.

He thinks he might have refused to die only because he needed to hear if Winter was okay. When he woke to that news, he’s pretty sure his heart gave out with the relief. He’d gone into a coma for another two weeks after hearing that Winter had got away. That was proof enough to him that his body cared more about Winter than anything else, just like his heart.

The knots in Winter’s hair fell apart under the comb, and Brock was mindlessly running his hands through the drying strands. His right hand retained all the feeling, but his left felt nothing and everything all at once. He didn’t stop though, found himself braiding it back from Winter’s face only to brush it out and start again.

Eventually Winter slumped against him, cheek pressed to the inside of Brocks thigh, mouth hanging open and snoring softly. Brock couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

With a good sightline to the door, Brock eased himself back against the couch until he could try and get some sleep too.

It hurt, but so did everything, so it was no skin off his back (pun intended) to clench his teeth and force himself to relax. Winter shuffled a little, looping an arm around Brocks leg and pressing his face further into him. Brock left a hand on his head, the other on the knife he’d swiped and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm so, so sorry this took so long! Also, thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments! Hope you're still enjoying!!!
> 
> I apologize if there's any problems in this, I barely had a chance to read through it when it was done so like... not only is it not beta read, it's also just not read at all so....
> 
> May I just say congrats to America today too? You guys did great! Keep up the good work, there's still work to be done, but you deserve to feel good about this win!!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long and is not that good

They both woke every thirty minutes on opposite intervals just like Brock had taught Winter a thousand times before (maybe closer to ten), and still Brock felt better rested than he had sleeping in his cell when he didn’t bother to wake himself for anything shy of the door opening.

They rose around five, and Brock started his daily workout routine while Winter raided the kitchen for food.

Working out consisted mainly of push ups, squats, and sit reps the last few months, but there was a set of weights in the bedroom and Brock took advantage of those today too. He had lost some muscle during his recovery, so he didn’t give two shits about how bad it hurt to spend hours working his core when he woke up from his coma. He was basically back where he was before the Triskelion, and he took some pride in that. Not that anyone would be able to tell, given he had no plans on removing his shirt any time soon.

Winter was cooking— presumably eggs and toast as that was all Brock had been able to teach him, it gave Brock the privacy to grunt through his workout in the bedroom as the sun rose over the city scape.

He pulled himself up when he was done, called to Winter where he was going so the man wouldn’t think he’d misplaced him, and riffled through the clothes Winter had found and heaped on the bed. Most of it looked like Brock’s, actually, with a few smaller articles he didn’t recognize. Something possessive spiked inside him at the thought of Winter in his clothes all these months.

At the bottom of the pile, Brock found an old beat-up CD case. It was a little worse for wear than he remembers it being when it was sat on the dresser in his bedroom. Where it sat for years.

The disc was still in perfect condition though.

He had kept the CD all these years. Never updated his music playing device either. He hadn’t listened to it often, but Brock didn’t listen to music often anyway. Usually only in the car. He was too paranoid to keep the disc in his car, both for fear of it being damaged, and for fear of its discovery. Not that it made much sense without the context. Still. The physical reminder of Winter was something he had to keep guarded. It was all he had. A stolen CD and a head full of memories he knew damn well couldn’t stand up to Hydra.

_The mission they’d found the CD on was a bust. A complete failure on intel, and while the target was eliminated, STRIKE was scattered all across the god damn province of Alberta of all fucking places. It was some oil company’s CEO that needed a none-to-gentle reminder of his loyalties and it was his personal secretary that had served as the incentive. Apparently, he had ended up rooting through some of Mr. Oil’s files which brought to the attention of Hydra that their esteemed donator may have been intentionally leaving a few breadcrumbs back to secret organisation._

_But Rollins had barely made check in, six hours in the opposite direction because he’d been told to tail the wrong car, Olsen missed check in and sent out a distress signal two hours from Rollins position, and Winter and Brock were the only ones who managed to complete their missions and make the rendezvous. Brock’s mission had been to have a little chat with Mr. Oil, while the Solider made his little secretary scream in the other room for a while before that final fatal bang._

_The others were supposed to have delayed the security, looped all the video feed, secured the perimeter, and do all the footwork._

_The Soldier and Brock had to do it themselves._

_The worst part was that they had essentially been stranded due to all the bad intel._

_They ended up stealing a car, switched some plates around for good measure even though Brock was pretty sure the little 1992 Saturn stick shift was stolen to begin with and wasn’t likely to be reported by the current user._

_Brock drove, though Winter likely knew how to do it himself, the Asset always deferred to the agents when possible. He had to tell the Soldier to sit in the front seat with him when he tried to crawl into the tiny backseat. It was going to be a long fucking ride. An hour in complete silence before Brock felt safe enough to fiddle with the radio, sure no one was coming after them. The signal was shit, so he checked the CD player and threw in whatever he found first, driving with his knee so he could shift down around a corner._

_The Soldier went very tense and then looked vaguely alarmed at his own reaction to Brock’s reckless driving._

_Brock recognized the music, he’s pretty sure he’d heard them on the radio a few times. Something three? Three something?_

_“Hey, you mind digging around for the case for this,” Brock tried, “In the console there,” he motioned at the dash._

_It took a moment but eventually the Soldier produced a black case with an orange rectangle and white text._

_3 Doors Down was the band._

_“Right on,” Brock congratulated them both._

_Another hour passed with the album looping itself and with the Soldier carefully cradling the case in his lap before Brock gave in and resigned himself to the tension. With a sigh he raised the volume just a little and let himself pretend he was alone in the car._

_He started to sing along under his breath, which wasn’t actually unusual for Brock, but it caused the Soldiers attention to turn on him._

_Brock just continued as if he wasn’t there at all, really. Aside from the small smile he shot the kid in some form of assurance after the botched mission._

_There was a song Brock recognized as the one he’d heard on the radio, and as he hummed along he really listened to the lyrics for the first time. The sudden desire to do so likely had to do with the scrutiny that the Soldier had him under, but still._

_The words made him turn to his companion who wasn’t quite his… Winter. He wasn’t Winter. Brock knew that._

_…I’m here without you baby, but your still with me in my dreams…_

_When the song ended, Brock had to clear his throat, blink a little hard, tried to distract himself from thinking about it. About Winter. His face was probably too soft. Too broken. The Soldier was smart. Brock shouldn’t be showing weakness._

_He reached for the player to switch it off but the Soldier stopped him with a hand on his wrist._

_He pulled back abruptly, in shock at his own behaviour again though._

_Brock glanced over and patted his thigh in a show of amicability so the Soldier wouldn’t panic._

_The Asset swallowed audibly. Tense._

_Brock left the music on._

_The Soldier’s posture shifted the next time Brock started singing along, turning his body to stare openly now._

_Another song came and went._

_“B,” Winter said, voice wrecked._

_He was turned to Brock completely, one leg tucked under himself to turn in the tiny, sloped seat._

_“Hey you,” Brock said gently. He wasn’t sure how long Winter would remain. He’d never really broken his programming like that._

_Winter didn’t reply and Brock didn’t let himself get his hopes up._

_The next song came and went, but Winter reached out and said, “I want to hear that one again,” quietly, “Please,” he added._

_“Anything,” Brock said, too quick, too tight, too much. Still, he pointed to the button that would rewind the song._

_…love me when I’m gone…_

_“Promise?” Winter asked when the song ended a second time._

_Brock didn’t think he was asking about Brock’s proclamation._

_Brock nodded, “Yeah, Win. I promise,” he said._

_Winter leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the side of Brock’s face, gentle and chaste._

_Brock smiled and pretended his face didn’t turn pink._

_If Winter found a way to press close against Brock as they drove, well that was between them. It was a small car anyway. And if Brock slipped the CD into the case Winter had been to careful to keep hold of and slip it into his pocket, no one was the wiser._

Brock was mindful on the nights he did allow himself to listen to it not to over play those two songs and ruin the disc. Despite his pessimism about their current future, Brock found himself far less worried about that now. The CD suddenly seemed more temporary than Winter. Winter felt sure. Felt real.

Besides, they could always replace it now. Enjoy it while it lasted—but this time the repercussions weren’t so severe as death. If they were though? Brock could think of no better way to go.

Shaking his head, fighting a small secret smile, Brock put the CD back where he found it and went back to his task.

The shower helped with the sensitivity of his damaged skin until the pain and itching was on par with what it normally was. The towels _were_ soft, Brock thought with a laugh. It didn’t hurt to dry himself off as badly as it usually did with the sandpaper sheet he was given in the basement.

The clothes were clean, but still smelled of sweat and Winter from him carrying them around for however many months. Brock was brushing his teeth in his underwear and socks when Winter knocked. “No,” Brock said with a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Hurry up, foods done,” he said through the door.

It was weirdly domestic and something clenched in his chest.

When he came out, dressed in jeans and a SHIELD t-shirt just to fuck with Rogers, Winter was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a white t-shirt that definitely looked familiar to Brock. It was just a plain t-shirt, but there was a small hole near the hem that was left by a _very_ close encounter with a knife in a bar fight Brock had been in. He’d kept the shirt only as a trophy from that fight.

“That mine?” he asked, even knowing that it was.

“Maybe,” Winter said, smirking slightly.

The admission made that something possessive flare up inside him again and he tried to shove it down but couldn’t exactly stop himself from eyeing Winter up and down.

“I cooked,” Winter said proudly, interrupting Brock’s ogling.

“It looks great, good job, kid” Brock praised, shaking the thoughts away.

It was eggs and toast, and it made Brock smile thinking about all the times he had taught Winter how.

_“Okay so then you just—are you even listening?” Brock asked, mock offended._

_Winter smiled, “Yeah, yeah I’m listening,” he smirked, “teach me more about kitchen appliances, baby,” he grinned with a lewd wink._

_Brock rolled his eyes, grabbing him by the hips and pulling him in for a kiss which Winter turned predictable dirty. When Brock pulled away, Winter’s eyes were dark with desire all over again. They’d only just managed to detangle themselves from each other to get cleaned up for the day less than an hour ago. Winter was known to Brock as an unrepentant hedonist, though. Or a slut. Brock preferred hedonist._

_“Now,” Brock said, ignoring Winter’s whine. “You have to make sure the toaster isn’t up too high. Just because it makes it easier doesn’t mean you can’t still catch the thing on fire,” he explained. They’d already mastered toast on the stove, but Brock figured it wouldn’t hurt for him to know how a toaster worked too, for when the opportunity arose._

_Winter blinked dumbly at him, “Wha?”_

_“I thought you wanted me to teach you about kitchen appliances?” Brock smirked._

_“Right,” Winter said, “Toast. Yeah, no, I got it. I was listening,” he said, setting his shoulders with a slight pinch between his brows that told Brock he really was not._

_The first attempt caught on fire, but the second was only slightly charred._

_For all that Winter had tried to distract Brock from the lesson, there was no hiding the pride on his face when he successfully used the toaster, all thoughts of sex forgotten in face of the challenge Brock had set._

_“Perfect,” Brock told him._

_Winter’s cheeks turned just a little pink, so Brock peppered his face with kisses until he was red._

_“Now, eggs,” Brock announced._

_Winter groaned._

It was nearly seven when they finished and Brock had cleaned the dishes, another peak at domestic life with Winter. A life Brock would never have.

He’s read the comics. Suicide Squad has death right in the name.

“We really doing this?” Brock asked, looking out through the floor to ceiling windows at the city bellow traffic already in full force, “Teaming up with the Avengers and taking down Hydra?”.

Winter came up behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist and gave a gentle squeeze. The pressure felt good against the scars now.

“And walking out into the sunset when we’re done,” Winter said.

Brock couldn’t help but smile.

He could pretend for now. That seemed to be all Brock ever did.

“Pardon the interruption, but Mr. Stark is requesting entry to the suite,” the AI sounded from above. Knives were pulled. Winter was pretty sure they would never get used to that. Oh well, they wouldn’t be here long.

Brock grunted an affirmative. Winter liked that Brock took the initiative with that. If it was up to Winter, he’d have cut the tracker out of his foot and fled by now.

“How’s my favourite murder couple?” Stark asked upon entry. He had a box in on the floor with him, and he kicked it carelessly into the apartment, “Stuff from your apartment, Scarface,” he said, “and your cell,” he added, “Which begs the question,” he said, not giving anyone chance to speak, “were you stock piling this shit?” he asked, indicating a large pile of ointment packets on top of the box of clothes.

Winter looked pointedly at Brock.

“No, you just give me too much of it,” he scoffed. Seriously though, they gave him five of those things a day. He could only reach so much of the damage and what he could reach was the parts the magic doctor had fixed the best.

“Buddy,” Stark said, “You are _covered_ in burns,” he said like Brock maybe forgot.

“I noticed,” he snapped.

“You are?” Winter asked looking equal parts angry and confused.

“No, Winter,” Brock soothed, “I’m fine,” he insisted.

Both Stark and Winter looked at him with a raised brow.

“Why are you here?” he asked, moving on.

“To explain how we’re going to break robocop’s conditioning,” he said with a charming smile that Brock did not find charming at all.

Stark wanted them to start right away, and Winter agreed that was what should happen. The plan was to take him to the Hulk room, have someone say the words, and then say them again and again until he stopped reacting violently. He insisted he be restrained, and that it was Brock who said the words.

“No,” Brock said, predictably, “I won’t do that to you, and I sure as shit ain’t going to tie you up first,” he said warningly.

“I don’t trust anyone else to do it, B,” Winter said gently and placating, “and I won’t risk hurting you if it goes south,” he said.

Brock turned to Stark, “Excuse us a minute,” he growled with a smile and dragged Winter to the bedroom for the elusion of privacy.

“ _Fifteen years_ ,” Brock hissed as the door shut behind them, “Fifteen fucking years I stood there and did _nothing_ while they tortured you and fucked with you and made you think you were a fucking machine,” he seethed quietly, “and now you’re finally, finally fucking free from that shit and you should be fucking running and hiding and living your life like a human fucking being and you—you want to go through it all again? You want _me_ to put you through that again?” he demanded, rough and angry.

“You were willing to say them before,” Winter said defiantly.

“To protect you,” he growled, crossing his arms.

“This is to protect me too!” Winter said, voice raising. He winced at his own outburst and apologized.

“God fucking damn it, Winter,” Brock groaned and then kissed him because he could. If Winter was making him do this, he was going to kiss the fuck out of him first. Maybe he just wanted to shut him up, maybe he was sick of always being the one to be kissed, maybe he really just thought Winter was beautiful when he was angry. Whatever the reason was, Brock grabbed his face and kissed him and kept fucking kissing him because it was the only thing he ever wanted to do.

Sure, burning Hydra to the ground would be great—but he’d be just as fucking happy if he could take Winter and run for their goddamn lives and only ever stop to kiss him. Which was a hell of an idea, actually.

Winter was pretty sure he’d just won their very first domestic argument.

Brock was pretty sure he’d just lost every argument they were every going to have.

“So, you’ll do it?” Winter panted minutes later.

“I’ll do anything for you,” Brock groaned, pressing their foreheads together.

“Destroy Hydra, take me on a date, find us a house,” Winter sighed, “That’s what I want from you”.

Brock felt himself nodding without really stopping to think what Winter was asking. It didn’t really matter. He was going to do it anyway. He might even succeed.

He kissed Winter again before letting him go.

Stark was sitting at the kitchen island looking bored and tapping on his phone when they emerged.

“Young love,” he sighed sarcastically when he saw them.

***

They were in the Hulk containment room again. Just the two of them, with the other Avengers all on the outside of the glass. It was like being in a fucking fish tank and it made both Winter and Brock’s skin crawl.

The others could hear them too, which made the feeling of being on display that much worse.

Natasha was out of the hospital, her arm in a sling and a cut across her cheek.

Brock saw opportunity in that, but he said nothing about it. He was sure that Winter saw it too.

“Sorry,” Winter had mumbled to her.

“Don’t be,” she said, “I knew it wasn’t likely to work,” she smiled a fake and kind thing.

Brock still refused to restrain Winter. He didn’t always fight back when he heard the words and if he started, they could reconsider.

They both sat on the floor until Winter said, “No, it’s weird like this,” and shook his head, “You stand, otherwise you’re too easy of a target”.

Brock had glared, “You saying I’m easy?”.

“I would never,” came the smirked reply.

Brock stood and looked down at Winter, wearing Brock’s clothes, his hair shiny and clean and a little wavy from the loose braid it had been in when he’d fallen asleep.

Brock was no stranger to standing over Winter. Winter liked when Brock loomed sometimes. Winter liked to feel small because he so often felt large and imposing, like a monster in the closet. Sometimes he preferred Brock to be the monster, and Brock always complied to his wishes.

Now, Brock wasn’t sure he could be this kind of monster.

He worked his jaw, trying to coax the first word out. When he did, it came out stilted and wrong. His pronunciation cringe worthy.

Winter shook his head, “Come on, B,” he said.

Brock glanced at their audience, at Rogers with his arms crossed and face serious. He looked back and tried again, but no sound came out.

The truth was that he was terrified.

Terrified Winter wouldn’t remember him.

He always was, really—but this was so much worse. What if being the one to inflict the pain on Winter was enough to change the Soldiers opinion on him entirely? What if the Soldier decided he couldn’t be trusted and kept up that icy guard and Brock could never get close enough to break the programing again?

Just the thought of taking all those memories away was enough to make him sick.

Winter pointed it out, “Hey, you look like your gonna hurl or something,” he said.

Brock shot him a glare, swallowed around the lump in his throat and took a shaky breath, “Gimmie a minute,” he grumbled.

Winter stood up and came towards him. Brock didn’t have the strength to back away when Winter curled a hand around his arm, “Hey,” he whispered, “talk to me,” he coaxed.

Brock looked into Winter’s eyes, grey-blue rainclouds swirling with life.

“What if you don’t remember me?” he whispered, “What if I can’t break the programing this time?” he stressed out loud, “Then what?” he hissed to cover the vulnerability in his voice.

Winter just shook his head, cupped Brock’s jaw even as the scarred man crossed his arms aggressively.

“I will _always_ remember you,” Winter whispered, vehemently.

“You don’t always remember me, there’s times that you don—” Winter cut him off with another of those dying man kisses.

“Shut up,” Winter said against his mouth and then leaned back, “You’re panicking and you don’t need to,” he said, “Think logically,” he mumbled, “This is only a temporary thing anyway—even if you can’t snap me out of it, give me some time and I’ll come back on my own,” he said, “Now, help me get this shit out of my head so you can make good on your promises,” he smirked.

Brock straightened up, groaning at this insufferable man, “Right, destroy Hydra, take you on a date, buy you a house,” he mumbled, “On it,” he said.

Winter grinned at him with a hum of an affirmative.

Winter didn’t sink back to his knees.

“Zhelaniye”

Winter shifted from foot to foot.

“Rzhavyy”

Clenched his human hand.

“Semnadtsat’”

His expression tensed.

“Rassvet”

A pained yelp. Brock hesitated but he knew he had to finish the sequence otherwise Winter was suffering for nothing.

“Pech’”

Winter fell to his knees face scrunched up in agony.

“Devyat’”

The metal arm came down against the floor, sending vibrations through the glass prison.

“Dobroserdechnyy”

He finally gave in a screamed.

“Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu”

The fist came down again, and again.

“Odin”

Winter grunted with each slam of his fist into the ground. Brock wondered if he could break it.

“Gruzovoy vagon”

Silence.

“Soldat?”

Voice wrecked, the Soldier replied, “gotov soblyudat'”.

“Very good,” Brock said, voice barely wavering.

“What is my mission?” The Soldier asked, voice blank.

Steeling himself, Brock forced himself to continue, “I’m running tests on your programing,” he explained, “You just sit there and try to relax if you can,” he said, “It’s okay if you can’t,” he also said, “You only have to sit there,” Brock tried to sound soothing.

The Soldier was tense, no doubt expecting to be punished. That’s usually what happened when he was told not to move.

Brock went through the sequence again. The Soldier’s brow furrowed, his hands clenched at his side, but he did not move or make a sound.

“What is my mission?” he asked when the sequence finished.

“Just try and relax,” Brock said again, “It’s okay if you can’t,”

And he repeated the sequence.

The soldier didn’t tense this time.

“What is my mission?”

“Just try and relax, it’s okay if you can’t”.

Four more times. The Soldier looked bored.

“What is my mission?”

“Just try and—”

“Relax, it’s okay if I can’t,” the Soldier repeated with a nod.

“Very good,” Brock praised and repeated the sequence.

The Soldier stopped asking about his mission.

Four more times, and then Brock asked, “How many times have I repeated those words, do you know?”

“Ten,” he said, “Eleven,” he corrected taking into account the first and most painful repetition.

“You did well, Winter,” Brock praised, “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Commander Rumlow,” he said, “Handler,” he added.

Brock nodded, something like relief letting him relax minutely, “Good, you’re doing fine,” he said. The Soldiers brow furrowed with confusion. He was pouting in that curious puppy sort of way.

“Are you injured?” Brock asked.

Those brows furrowed some more, “No, sir,” he said.

Brock nodded, walked over to the bottles of water that were left for them in here and carefully avoided making eye contact with the Avengers. Winter had his back to them, not bothering to follow Brock with his eyes and was blissfully unaware of their presence.

He handed a bottle to Winter, “Drink,” he instructed, and opened a bottle for himself. He sat down in a lazy sprawl in front of Winter which further confused him even as he dutifully drank the water.

Winter stared at him, blank faced and dead-eyed.

“Something on your mind?” Brock asked.

“What happened to your face?” he asked.

Brock smiled grimly, “Building fell on it,” he answered.

Winter frowned, “I am not trained with first aid,” he said simply.

Brock laughed, “No, it was a while ago—I’m not hurt,” he said.

Winter frowned and nodded, “Why am I awake?” he asked.

Brock smiled a little tense, “Just sit there and look pretty,” he said.

“Pretty,” Winter replied.

Brock nodded.

“It’s scary,” Winter said, “Sit there and look scary,” he said, tone confused and distant.

“You’re right,” Brock smiled, “That is what you usually do,” he said.

Silence passed between them for a while before Brock scooted closer, “What do you feel when you hear those words?” he asked, moving to brush the hair out of Winter’s face. Winter tensed but didn’t flinch, and his pouting confused expression only furthered at the gentle touch. He leaned into it before catching himself and looking appalled at his own behaviour.

“Pain,” Winter replied gruff, “Burns,” he said, “the more you say them, the less it hurts,” he added.

Brock stroked his hair, “what does this feel like?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Winter replied, eyes hooded, “Not pain,” he said, “It’s the not pain feeling,” he explained.

Brock nodded, “I’m going to say those words again,” he said and Winter tensed, “but I’m going to keep touching you just like this,” he said softly, scratching gently at Winter’s scalp until the tension faded again, “Then maybe the words won’t hurt at all,” he mumbled.

“Yes, sir,” Winter replied.

Winter did tense at the sound of Brocks accented Russian, but he didn’t fight or pull away.

“Still hurt?” Brock asked.

“Yes, sir,” Winter said, but moved almost unconsciously closer to Brock, seeking more contact.

Brock had both hands in Winters hair, and pulled him until his forehead rested against Brock chest. Brock repeated the words, let his hands trail up and down Winter’s back.

“Still hurt?” he asked.

“Little bit,” Winter replied, sounding a little bit like a human when he did.

Brock gently dug his fingers into the tense muscles, coaxing relaxation from the man, and said the words again.

“Still hurt?”

“I’m so confused,” Winter whispered, “What… what is my mission, Brock?” he shuddered.

Brock hushed him, “Just try and relax, kid,” he replied.

“I know you,” he said, and looked up. Brock could see human expression on his face, something less dull in his eyes. Winter climbed into his lap, “I know this,” he said, “I—I _know_ you,” he insisted.

Brock nodded, “You do,” he said, “Just relax, Winter,” he soothed.

Winter’s legs tightened around him and Brock didn’t wince, too distracted by the expressions passing by on Winter’s face to care about the pain.

Memories were trickling back into his head, Winter rested his forehead on Brock’s shoulder, “You kissed me,” Winter said, “Today, this morning,” he said, “I was there… I—I’ve been awake… for months,” he said. “I thought you were dead!” he said suddenly, accusing, “Asshole, I thought you died!”.

It was Winter, Brock smiled, not with all his memories yet, but it was still him.

Winter looked up to glare at him and his face fell, “because you were hurt,” he realized.

Then, “Oh,” it was more of a sigh, “Hey, B,” he said and slumped into him.

“Hey,” Brock said back, “You know where we are?”.

“Unfortunately,” he mumbled. “That wasn’t so bad,” he sighed.

Brock disagreed wholeheartedly.

The other Avengers streamed into the glass fishbowl. Winter scrambled to stand, offering Brock a hand up, which he used gratefully. The scars of his back pulled painfully but he refused to wince in the face of the Black Widow.

“Does the Hydra serum have octopus DNA in it or something?” Stark asked teasing.

Brock glared. Winter snarled.

He raised his hands in surrender, “Am I the only one who thinks it’s weird the worlds deadliest assassin likes to cuddle?” he said, “because it is weird, and we should all think it’s weird,” he said.

“You willing to talk now?” Romanoff said to Brock, ignoring Stark completely.

“With you?” he smiled, “Never,” he said.

“If you’re going to be working with us, I think it’s time we learned who you really are,” Rogers said.

Brock shot another dirty look to Rogers.

Stark complained about sitting on the floor again until he’d convinced everyone to let Brock into their super secret superhero lounge. It was a pretty nice place, he said casually as he checked the rooms perimeter, Winter at his back the whole time. They were both significantly more on edge with Romanoff around, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

Brock also idly mentioned how she wanted them both dead a lot more than anyone else. “Might’ve kicked Wilson’s ass—but I think we got even,” he said, “Romanoff, not so much”.

Rogers had rolled his eyes, “Well Buck, you don’t need to worry about—”

“I killed four of her sisters and shot her in the stomach,” he interrupted, expression hard.

Everyone shut the fuck up at that. Romanoff’s jaw clenched. She didn’t say it was okay.

Stark, Wilson, and Banner all took a seat, Brock and Winter stood on one side of the room, Rogers and Romanoff on the other.

“Well, this is fun,” Stark said sarcastically.

“Why did you join Hydra?” Rogers demanded, jumping right to the chase.

Brock smiled, “They recruited me,” he said, “Fresh home from the desert, they liked what they saw there I guess”.

“Which was?” Romanoff prompted.

“Blood and sand, I suppose,” he shrugged.

“They give you incentive?” Romanoff asked. For Hydra, incentive meant blackmail or leverage—family, loved ones and a sniper trained on their bedroom window.

“Didn’t need to”.

“So, you are a Nazi?” Stark asked, “Sorry, I don’t speak double agent”.

“I’d be walkin’ around with a pink triangle, wouldn’t I? No, I’m not a fuckin’ Nazi,” he said with a huff.

“So why join?” Rogers asked again.

Brock shrugged, “Wasn’t much difference between SHIELD and what Hydra was pitching,” he said, “Wasn’t a fan of the dirt, probably would’a joined SHIELD for real if they’d asked, but they didn’t”.

“So, Hydra was what? Just a regular job?” Stark scoffed.

“Yeah,” he said, “It was intelligence work, killing threats to national security, gather intel from SHIELD to help fill in the ranks for Hydra,” he explained faux casual.

“The fact you didn’t think twice about joining a literal Nazi agency as a double agent based on the fact they offered you a job is not doing much to instill much faith here, Scarface”.

“Look,” he sighed, “I’m a trained killer and it was a job,” he said, “Ain’t no one askin’ you to trust me. I kill people, it never mattered who it was for,” he said.

“What changed?” Romanoff asked, because of course she picked up on the past tense. “Barnes really changed your mind?” she smirked and fuck, he had glanced at Winter when she asked, and this was exactly why he didn’t want to talk with her in the room.

Instead of giving her anything to work with he leered and said, “He’s persuasive”.

Winter glared, “I never told you to turn on Hydra,” he ratted.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, “You’ve all seen the damn files and what they did to him,” he gritted, “Job wasn’t worth that shit,” he grumbled.

“When did you love birds first meet, anyway?” Stark asked.

“Ninety-seven,” he said.

“You joined Hydra in ninety-five,” Romanoff said.

“They liked what they saw,” he growled.

He had risen quickly in Hydra’s ranks. They all knew that already. Knew why.

“When did you start…” Wilson motioned between them.

“2002,” Winter said, “March ninth,” he added.

Brock blinked at him, “I don’t even remember that,” he said.

Winter beamed proudly.

“When did you become his handler?”

“When Insight was announced, so five or six years ago,” he said.

“Which is when you started planning to spring him,” Stark said, “According to the Secretary’s files,”

“How did he find out, anyway?” Brock asked. Even if he’d questioned Winter, it’s not like Winter knew the plan.

“You didn’t read the file?” Stark asked.

“I was busy,” he grumbled. Braiding Winter’s hair, not that they needed to know that.

“You told him,” Romanoff said.

He glared, “I didn’t tell him shit!” he growled.

“They drugged you,” Winter whispered, “Wiped the memory,” he added.

“Fuck,” he said, “Well,” he said a moment later, “Shit’s pretty efficient, huh?” he said to Winter who glared at him for the joke.

“He was going to make you the Winter Soldier’s last target after Insight was launched,” Romanoff said.

Winter shifted uncomfortable, his stony expression wavering. Brock moved closer, pressed their shoulders together.

“He was an asshole,” Brock said, “Not surprising”.

Rogers shifted, and Stark prompted him to speak, less he have an aneurism trying to keep his self righteous mouth shut.

“Look,” he said, “We’re all happy to hear that Bucky had someone in his corner in that place,” he said in a tone that said he couldn’t care less, “but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re Hydra—and there’s no way we can trust you. You’re a double agent, that’s enough to tell me not to trust you,” he crossed his arms.

Which roughly translated to ‘ _Thanks for not torturing him, now fuck off, he’s mine_ ’ and it made Brock laugh, and laugh, and he was hunched over laughing, a hand on Winter’s shoulder making Rogers glare even harder.

“No one is asking you to trust us,” Winter said.

“I trust you, Bucky,” Rogers said, “It’s him I don’t trust”.

“You get us both, or you get neither,” Winter said, “I told you already, I wont tell you shit without him,” he glared, completely missing what Rogers what was really saying.

“How touching,” Romanoff scoffed.

Winter glared, fingers twitching for the knife he had at the small of his back.

“Still two very deadly assassins, Nat,” Stark warned.

“So, we team up, take down Hydra and then what?” Wilson said, “Whose to say you don’t spare your own buddies and use us to take down your competition”.

Brock shrugged, “Either way, you get most of Hydra,” he said, “But I have more important things to do than rally a bunch of Nazis,” he said.

“Like taking Winter on a date and buying a house?” Romanoff smirked.

“Yeah,” he said with a harsh bite of a smile, “I’m thinking Montana,” he said.

“Brokeback Mountain takes place is Wyoming,” Winter corrected, “I googled it,” he added.

“I can’t wait to rehash arguments from ten years ago now that you can _google_ ,” Brock grumbled.

Winter smirked, “It was filmed in Canada,” he added smug.

“God damn it,” he muttered. He was sure it was North Dakota.

“You owe be a blowj—”

“Okay, moving on,” Rogers hissed.

Winter looked to Brock, and a silent conversation passed between them before Brock nodded.

“Here’s the thing,” Brock said, “You’re going to agree to our terms, you’re going to take this tracker out, and you’re not going to turn on me because Winter’s killed four Black Widows by _accident_ , and he can take every single one of you down if you betray us,” he growled lowly. “You give us tomorrow to work on this conditioning bullshit, and then we make our first move,” he said with a smile.

“If you don’t,” he said before they could cut in, “You’re welcome to take another six months breaking down those encrypted files and trying to guess where the agents all went and how many there was, and in that time, Hydra’s going to grow and grow, and Winter will go after them and kill as many as he can—but Hydra is a fucking parasite and you’re never going to find them all if you kill me,” he said, “You ain’t ever gunna find that scepter, either,” he smirked because that’s why he was alive. That’s why he was in their fucking basement anyway —asking about the scepter and asking about Winter.

“You’re not the one calling the shots,” Rogers growled.

But he really was. Only two people alive knew where that scepter was, and for all the Avengers knew, it was only one—and that was Brock.

“You want to start taking Hydra next week or next year?”

This is why Winter needed Brock to take Hydra, he thought with something like a dreamy internal sigh. Brock got the point across, didn’t ramble and babble, didn’t pace and get frustrated. No one could say no to Brock’s conditions. Winter found him incredibly attractive when he was in command. He told him as much when they were alone in the apartment again.

“I find you incredibly attractive all the time,” Brock growled, hands on Winter’s hips.

Winter pressed their mouths together in a kiss, curving his body into Brock’s, letting the other man back him up into the wall. Brock turned the kiss filthy and hard and Winter was moaning low in his throat before he knew it. Brock let his mouth wander—and Winter was all over that, thanks. It had been so long since they went all the way, but they’d done it in riskier places than this and Winter felt like he was dying for it.

“I wanna mark you up,” Brock growled, licking the side of Winter’s throat, “Never could before,” he complained, “Now your all mine,” he hummed.

Winter nodded, panting, “Yes, please, B,” he whined, recognizing the request even without the question.

Brock’s teeth against his neck sent shivers through him, and the biting kiss that turned to something like gentle sucking made his legs feel week because Brock was right, he had never done that before and it was a brand new sensation and Winter was so hard in his jeans just from a bit of heavy kissing and whatever the fuck Brock was doing to his neck. He never wanted it to stop, whatever it was.

“Oh, oh, I really like that,” he breathed, hoping Brock would continue. He did, trailing those wet, biting kisses all over the sensitive skin of his throat.

Winter got a hand on Brock’s ass and pulled until their hips aligned and they both moaned.

“Pardon the interruption, sirs,” the computer said.

Winter jumped but Brock didn’t, only slowly lifting his head and humming a question to the ceiling before kissing Winter again.

“Captain Rogers is requesting a moment of Sargent Barnes’ time,” the voice said.

Brock grinned, admiring Winter against the wall, lips red and bitten, hickeys down both sides of his neck, cheeks pink and breathing heavy.

Winter glared, “You knew he was going to come up here,” Winter realized.

Brock shrugged, “Maybe,” he said, “You accepting company, dear?” he prompted with a smirk.

Winter rolled his eyes, “Fine, let him in,” he said.

Brock sent a pointed look at Winter’s crotch as he backed up, blushing he adjusted himself in his jeans as the door opened.

“Bucky,” Rogers greeted, tense.

“Captain cockblock,” Winter said back.

Rogers looked sufficiently uncomfortable, looking at the dishevelment of the long haired man.

He cleared his throat, “Was hoping we could talk,” Rogers said, “Alone,” he added.

Brock chuckled, “I can tell when I’m not wanted,” he said, taking the box Stark had kicked into the foyer, “I’ll be around,” he said—threatening to Rogers, soothing to Winter and disappeared into the bedroom.

Brock kept the door open a crack with a balled-up t-shirt.

“I can make coffee,” he heard Winter offer, awkward.

Brock spent a few minutes rubbing a packet of the medicinal gel over his shoulder and arm as well as his hip and leg.

Then he sat down and opened that file.

Reading Peirce’s account, he could almost hear the sick fuck’s voice in his head. That was the most unnerving part somehow. There was a whole day of his life he didn’t remember, but it wasn’t as distressing as one would think if only because there was nothing to miss from that day. I wasn’t like being black out drunk and waking up knowing you’d forgotten the last twelve hours. There was nothing in his mind that was even sort of tipping him off about a missing day.

Peirce had gotten everything from him though. It hadn’t really been the drugs that loosened his tongue, according to Pierce, rather it was the gun trained on Winter’s head the whole time.

_< <Commander Rumlow was very forthcoming on details of his plans to release the Asset from service after the Insight Carriers launch when the Asset’s life was threatened._

_Commander Rumlow refused to offer details of his relationship to the Asset even under the influence of ** ~~IIIIIII.~~** The Asset was more cooperative in his interview, see file number 6745-red for transcript._

_Additional interviews with Strike team members and Commander Rumlow’s subordinates support a theory of his disloyalty to ** ~~IIIII~~** having developed after contact with the Asset._

_Commander Rumlow was volunteered as a test for ** ~~III IIIII~~** as the sixteenth non-enhanced human subject (See file 4567-Blue for other subjects reports). The procedure was successful with no adverse effects observed._

_Commander Rumlow has been marked for immediate termination from ** ~~IIII~~** employ effective after Insight Carriers launch. Termination of Rumlow’s contract to be carried out by the Asset prior to containment in **~~IIIIIIIIII~~**.>>_

“Computer guy,” Brock asked the ceiling.

“Yes, Commander Rumlow?”

“Does Stark have a Hydra file 6745-Red that I could see?”

“Yes, if you would direct your attention to the nightstand, I will display it for you,” the accented voice replied.

A fucking hologram popped up from the nightstand and what the fuck kind of science fiction novel was this?

Still, he read the file. Or as much as he could stomach.

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Good morning, Asset._

**_Asset_ ** _: What is my mission?_

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: You’re going to tell me what you know about your field handler, Commander Rumlow._

**_Asset_ ** _: Yes, sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Do you know who I am talking about?_

**_Asset_ ** _: Yes, sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Describe him._

**_Asset_ ** _: Approximately six feet tall, one-hundred-seventy pounds, lean build, strong, unenhanced. Tan skin, dark hair. [The asset pauses] His eyes are amber. Sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Amber._

**_Asset_ ** _: Yes, sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Has Commander Rumlow ever touched you inappropriately?_

**_Asset_ ** _: I don’t understand the question, Sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Of course, you don’t. Has Rumlow ever kissed you?_

**_Asset_ ** _: I don’t know. I can’t remember, Sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Try._

**_Asset_ ** _: Sir? I don’t… I don’t understand._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Try to remember._

**_Asset_ ** _: Sir? I’m not supposed—_

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Tell me what you remember about Rumlow._

**_Asset_ ** _: I… I kissed Commander Rumlow, sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: You kissed your handler._

**_Asset_ ** _: Yes, sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Tell me, Asset. Does Commander Rumlow fuck you?_

**_Asset_ ** _: I… I don’t remember, Sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: There are ways I can find out. It won’t be pleasant for you._

**_Asset_ ** _: Yes, sir. Commander Rumlow… I asked him to, Sir. I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed—_

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: Shut up. In a few days, you’re going to terminate him._

**_Asset_ ** _: No!_

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: What did you just say?_

**_Asset_ ** _: No, Sir. I won’t do it. I won’t hurt him!_

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: That’s okay. You don’t have to hurt him. I’m hurting him in the other room already. Here, you can watch._

**_Asset_ ** _: No! Don’t! Stop, stop he didn’t do anything! It was my fault! Stop! Stop! You’re killing him!_

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: No, Asset, that’s your job._

**_Asset_ ** _: Please, please, stop it. It wasn’t his fault._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: See, he said the same thing about you._

**_Asset_ ** _: Please._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: You belong to Hydra, Asset. Commander Rumlow seems to have forgotten that. Do you know what he was planning to do?_

**_Asset_ ** _: No, sir. Please, please, he’ll die. Please._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: He was trying to take you away from me. Away from Hydra._

**_Asset_ ** _: He won’t. He can’t. He knows he can’t—please just turn it off, please, sir._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: He told me he was going to kill me, did you know? He told me he was going to die for you. Kill for you. He told me he’s already killed for you, did he mention?_

**_Asset_ ** _: Please stop._

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: It’s actually kind of sweet. He must have stayed all these years waiting for the opportunity to get you out. He’s a good actor, I’ll give him that._

**_Asset_ ** _: Stop it!_

**_A.P ~~IIII~~_ ** _: It was all going to happen tomorrow. He might actually have got away with it, too. It was a good plan. He’s a smart man. What a waste. Wipe him when your done with Rumlow. And Asset? I’m putting a bullet in you after you’ve completed this mission. You’re becoming far more hassle than you’ll be worth with those weapons in the sky._

He could still hear Winter’s low baritone in the other room. It was the only thing that stopped him from getting up and wrapping the man in his arms.

He doesn’t remember any of this. He supposed that might be a good thing, considering it sounded like he was probably blocking out a shit ton of painful memories.

He also supposed he could take comfort knowing he’d at least only ever been stuck in that chair the once. He would be dead, otherwise. It was good, Winter and Brock could say they had a full set of memories between them accounting for the last fifteen years.

Peirce was dead, this file meant nothing.

Sure, it documented how much leverage the Avengers could have over either of them if they did decide to separate them, but some how Brock thought that even if Rogers was obviously waiting for his Bucky to come back—he wouldn’t do anything that would hurt Winter and that included hurting Brock or separating them. They couldn’t be sure though, and that was something they couldn’t forget.

In a way, Brock was waiting for Winter to turn back into ‘Bucky Barnes’ too.

Seeing Winter recognize Rogers was the first time he’d ever seen Winter’s programming break for anything that wasn’t Brock himself or just plain time. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t fuck with him a little.

He was a monster, after all.

Brock wasn’t a good person, even if Winter made him feel like he maybe was. He had joined Hydra willingly, then stayed in Hydra even knowing he was killing the wrong kind of people just to get a few snippets of affection from an abused amnesiac who didn’t know his own name. He justified it by telling himself he had never made the first move on Winter, but that did very little in the face of what he _had_ done and what he _hadn’t_ done.

If he was a good man, like Rogers, he would have made a suicide dash with Winter the very first time they met.

No, Brock wasn’t a good man. He was a smart man. Seems Peirce agreed. Just not smart enough.

Brock was something between a smart man and a good one, he supposed. He had to have done something ‘good’ if Peirce had caught on. Either way—it still made him a monster (he even looked the part now).

Of course, in this instance, he was using Captain America as a measure of a good man. He wasn’t sure how true that was. Captain America was definitely a stupidly loyal man. Brock couldn’t say if that made him a good one.

In the kitchen, Winter sat uncomfortably stiff with his company.

“I’m glad you came back,” Rogers said with a smile.

“I came for Brock,” Winter said, and then winced at his own words, “Sorry, that came out harsher than it was supposed to,” he said.

“It’s alright,” Rogers said with a frown. “So, you and Rumlow…” he trailed off.

“Kind of messed up, right?” he said with a small smile.

“Very,” Rogers nodded.

Winter nodded too, “I’m not the same person you remember,” he said, “I’ve been awake, you haven’t”.

“Still,” Rogers said, “It’s… I mean there’s consent issues,” he said.

“Expecting me to be celibate for seventy years is a special kind of torture, Rogers,” Winter said, “I thought you said you knew me,” he smirked with a faked sort of confidence.

“You remember everything?”

“Mostly,” he nodded, “I remember we weren’t ever a thing,” he said pointedly.

“We weren’t,” Rogers said quickly, “But—”

“But nothing,” Winter interrupted.

“Bucky—”

“No, Rogers,” he said, “I spent the last fifteen years waiting for this moment. This moment with him. So why are you really here?” he demands, “Because I gotta be honest, I’m getting sick of people taking shit from me, and you couldn’t take this from me if you tried. I can make that guarantee,” he said, slow and low.

“Look, I’m not trying to… take this comfort away from you,” Rogers tried, “All I’m saying is that you’re safe now, we’re going to take care of Hydra, and you don’t need—”

“Me?” Brocks voice came from the doorway, “I agree, Cap,” he drawls arms crossed aggressively, “Just makes it sweeter that he _wants_ me though,” he winked.

“I—I’m not—It’s not—” Rogers stuttered out.

“It’s been a long day, Cap. Why don’t we pick this up again later,” Brock suggested with a fake grin, “Or never,” he added, and moved easily into Winter’s space, hand coming up to rest at the small of Winter’s back and he found the fight drained out of him.

“I just,” Rogers gave one last try.

“Later, Steve,” Winter said with finality, reveling in the way he had control over the room once again.

Reveling in how after a few more sputtering moments, Rogers did in fact leave.

“Hey,” Brock said in a gentler voice, one special for Winter, for them. Quiet and alone.

“Hey,” Winter returned with a small smile.

He really was exhausted.

“Come on, rest up, kid,” Brock murmured, guiding him to the bedroom in the back of the apartment.

When was the last time they’d made time in a bed? Winter wondered. He’s not sure they ever have. A bed, or a bedroom, was a harder position to defend—limited exits, a single entrance. They never spent much time in beds. He remembers one instance though, where Brock slept soundly in a bed, and Winter kept watch like a dog, paranoid and riding on adrenaline. Brock was also high on morphine at the time.

_Winter remembers the fear that gripped the soldier, how confusing the emotion had been. It was only the Commander and the Asset on the mission, something the Soldier had a vague sense of familiarity with, just as he had a vague sense of familiarity with the Commander bleeding and bloody._

_Brock wasn’t so much bleeding and bloody, but he was in incredible pain with three broken fingers, two broken ribs, a recently relocated shoulder, and a fracture somewhere in his foot. The mission was more or less over. The remainder of STRIKE was cleaning up the last of the loose ends, but they were hours out and extraction wasn’t coming until the entire group had rendezvoused. Brock’s condition wasn’t critical by any means, but he was in a lot of pain._

_Hence, the morphine._

_He remembers easing the Commander gently to the bed in the back bedroom of the safehouse, hearing the hisses of pain and the choked off groan once he’d settled. Remembers how it pulled at his memory just little, just like that._

_He remembers Brock’s own gentle instructions on how to administer the shot of morphine, remembers the patience his Commander was showing that contrasted starkly with the way he had been snapping at everyone else earlier in the day._

_It was when the Commander ran a soft hand down the Assets back as he readied the needle what Winter really caught up._

_“Brock?” he asked, slow and cautious._

_“Winter?” Brock’s tone mirrored his._

_“I—I think so,” he replied._

_Brock smiled with a tight pained laugh he cut off on a wince, “Welcome to the party,” he said._

_“I don’t see how this is a party,” Winter had said blandly, rolling up the sleeve and Brock’s jacket._

_“Slumber party,” he said on a slow sigh as Winter pressed the plunger down._

_“Will you be okay?” Winter asked._

_“I’m going to pass out,” Brock admitted, “But wake me up in two, stay near the house, don’t let anyone see you, and uh maybe make some noise if we’re under… under attack,” he said, eyelids fluttering._

_“You are at a tactical disadvantage, Commander,” Winter said._

_“Well, I feel pretty great about it,” he said, frustrating Winter to no end. He didn’t like Brock at a disadvantage. Didn’t like how slow his response time was going to be._

_“Because I’m here, yeah?” Winter teased with a raised brow. He also didn’t like Brock’s implication that Winter was going anywhere, that Winter would do anything besides stand guard over his wounded commander. His friend. His… lover?_

_“Always, yeah… yes,” Brock murmured, eyelids falling shut._

_Winter’s heart rate was accelerated the whole time, listening for sounds of approaching hostiles, and for Brock’s steady breathing beside him in the bed. He couldn’t help watching over Brock’s features a little bit. The man looked at peace in a way Winter even with such a limited amount of memory knew was entirely due to the morphine. He looked younger, but most people did in sleep. He looked less sharp, Winter thought. He looked the way he feels to Winter, instead of the act Brock always put on around the others._

_He was still loopy two hours later when Winter woke him and the STRIKE team made their way back, but Brock hid that well, letting Rollins take his weight as they stumbled into the back of the extraction van._

This time, it’s Winter who is settled down into the too soft mattress and Brock who sits up like an angry guard-dog.

It makes Winter smile before the exhaustion from hearing the trigger words over and over again really does catch up and his eyes are slipping shut.

It’s a few short hours later when Brock startles at the feel of texturless temperaturless pressure against his back. The shift takes the pressure from numb to oversensitive in a moment. He turns to find Winter blinking awake, hand outstretched towards Brock.

“Good morning,” Brock murmurs despite the late hour.

“It would be better with a kiss,” Winter responds easily.

It’s so warm and domestic it makes Brocks heart clench in his chest as he leans over to do as requested.

Winters hand is cool on the tight, sensitive skin of his face as those metal fingers curl around his neck and tug gently until Brock is laid out half on top of the other man. Winter stretches out the line of his throat, “Kiss me here,” he says, and Brock does.

Winter pushed Brock back far enough to sit up a bit, just enough to shrug out of his shirt before he’s laying back and pulling Brock in again.

“Kiss me here,” he whispers, arching his back and accentuating his chest, and Brock does.

“How about here?” Brock murmurs, lips ghosting a rosy pink nipple.

“Yes, there,” Winter agrees on a breathy sigh.

“Here?”

“Mmm, yes”.

And so it goes. Soft, gentle kisses, slow and sweet, creating a heat in Winter he _recognizes_ for once. He recognizes it well. It makes anticipation spike deliciously in his gut.

“What about—”

“Definitely there, please, please”

Brock doesn’t make Winter beg, but Winter does it anyway regardless of how obliging Brock is, which is to say, very, because there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Winter it seemed.

He presses a kiss to the already growing bulge in Winters jeans. He hadn’t bothered taking them off to rest, and Brock hadn’t been thinking clear enough to have mentioned it, though he regrets it now. He wants to get his mouth on Winter and for the other man to feel it through the fabric.

It seems reasonable to take Winter out of his pants now, kiss him through the thin cotton of his boxers before taking him into his mouth, but that isn’t what happens.

Winter isn’t wearing boxers. He’s wearing nothing at all.

Brock makes a sound, a low groan in the back of his throat that scrapes and rumbles and Winter smirks down at him, lifts his hips and shimmies the rest of the way out of his jeans.

Suddenly Brock wants to do more than just suck Winter off. His own cock is straining in his pants, but he knew it would be. He has every plan to ignore it in favour of making Winter feel good though.

Really having sex won’t be any good for Winter, he knows. Not with the pain Brock is in, not with the ugly bubbly scaring all over his body that Winter doesn’t need to see.

He nudges Winter’s thighs apart, lays himself between them, dodging Winter’s fumbling attempts to rid him of his shirt and goes back to trailing kisses over Winter’s body.

“You seem confident you’re getting something tonight,” Brock muses with a soft smirk of his own, kissing over a scar above Winters knee.

“Maybe I just like the feeling,” Winter hums back with a little grin.

Brock nips playfully at the inside of his thigh with a growl, “of being a little cock tease?”.

Winter wiggles his hips, trying to distract Brock with the obscene curve of his flushed red cock. It works only slightly, Brock giving in to give a soft kiss to the shaft, dragging his lips up to lick at the tip when it jumps.

“Yeah,” Winter agrees is a rush of air and sound, either to the words or to the sensation it’s unclear.

Brocks sucked Winter off before. Many times. This is different though. They have time. There are enemies around, sure, but neither of them will ever be able to drop their guard completely no matter the setting and they’ve both known that for a long time. This is as close they’ll get to fucking like normal people do. On a bed, completely naked (in Winters case), taking their time, but there’s a gun under the pillow instead of a bottle of lube, another in the back of Brocks pants instead of a condom in the pocket, and Winter walks around with a shield and a weapon melted into his bones.

“Kinda like teasin’ you,” Winter murmurs again after he’s got his breath back.

Brock grunts at that, licks another gentle teasing stripe up Winters cock and hold his hips still when he chases the sensation.

“Didn’t even think about it until I caught you looking at me this morning,” Winter hums, then moans when Brock takes him into his mouth. It’s highly motivated in making Winter shut up, but it’s also brought on by the urgent roll of his hips in Brocks hands.

It doesn’t shut Winter up.

“Oh,” he hisses, “fuck, uh, mmm, yeah, you looked like you wanted to—to fuck, yeah, this. You looked like you wanted to _eat me_ ,” he laughs, high and breathless and loses it in a moan.

Brock’s own hips roll against the bed seeking friction and he moans around the cock in his mouth, sounding deep and rumbly like most sounds do now.

Winter moans again, but if the high-pitched nature is anything to go by, it’s more from the sound then the sensation. Winter’s always like when Brock made those sorts of sounds.

Brock pulls off to smirk at the other man, “You get used to showering more and I might just do that,” he says, hands sliding under Winter hips and grabbing greedy handfuls of his ass.

“Wha— _oh_ ,” Winter pants, eyes wide.

They’d only done it once, though that wasn’t because either of them didn’t enjoy it, it was just that Winter couldn’t keep quiet _at all_. Once was enough to know they were running too high a risk, but god was there times Brock thought it might be worth it.

Brock smirks up at him.

“Hell of an incentive, Commander,” Winter says, teasing but breathless with the idea.

Brock hums and gets back to work. As far as retirement jobs go, he thinks he may have lucked out.

“Fuck, B” Winter hisses, “’m not gonna last if you…” he breaks off into another gasping moan.

He’s beautiful like this. Hips jerking gentle, careful, even though he’s so incredibly strong he could hold Brock down and do whatever he needed. He doesn’t. He has this incredible self restraint of his body, but not so much his mouth, and Brock _loves_ it.

“Brock, c’mon, I wanna… wanna fuck… _more_ ,” and Brock feels a little bad for purposefully misinterpreting that. Actually, he feels awful—but not bad enough not to do it.

He doesn’t stop the slide of Winter in and out of his mouth, messy and a little rough with a hint of teeth, but Winter never minds it. Brock lets his least damaged hand travel back up Winters body, slow and teasing until he prods at the running mouth.

Winter moans and takes Brock’s fingers in greedily, sucking and laving his tongue over the digits. It makes Brock’s own composure falter, and he grinds harder against the bed through his pants. The feeling of hot, wet suction on his scarred skin is incredible and oh so tempting, and when he tried to pull the digits away, Winter chases them with a moan and god, Brock wants inside every inch of Winter’s body.

He does retract his hand though, spares a brief moment to circle a nipple with the slick pad of his finger before nudging Winter’s thighs further apart with his shoulders.

Winter thinks Brock is giving him exactly what he wants when those rough, callused fingers circle him in a completely different place. Winter’s needy for it, for Brocks fingers and then more, more, more.

He feels almost betrayed when Brock makes him cum before that.

“B, no, no, please, fuck me, god, please,” he begs uselessly when Brock’s gentle brush against his prostate becomes a brutal attack and the suction on his cock increases. He pulls insistently on Brocks hair until he releases Winter’s cock with a pout.

“Want you in me,” Winter pants.

It’s not like Brock missed that, Winter is sure.

“Want to taste you,” Brock answers, voice even rougher than ever before, lips red and glistening and hair tousled. His eyes are dark, in the dim light and with arousal they look black.

Winter blames the voice most of all.

“Oh fuck,” he moans, falling back on the bed in surrender. He doesn’t need to look to know Brock is smirking, but Winter can’t care less.

He’s coming less than a minute later.

“Brock, oh god, good, good, good, so fucking—ah,” Brock pulls back enough to feel the hot spurts against his tongue. Taste the bitterness before he swallows.

It’s not until Winter is panting, coming down from his high that Brock realizes he’s still pressing hard into the mattress and shifts up, hoping to will the erection away.

Really, Brock isn’t interested in reciprocation right now. He doesn’t want to ruin the glow of Winter’s orgasm, so he shrugs it off. Or he means to, until he’s grabbing for Winter’s jeans in anticipation for his needing them back and finds something clattering to the floor from the pocket.

It’s a set of tags.

At first, Brock thinks maybe Rogers had brought Winter his from way back in their glory days. He doesn’t know why his brain jumps to that, but it seems logical explanation for why there’s a set of old military tags in Winters pocket.

It’s not Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’s name though.

It’s Sergeant Brock Anthony Rumlow’s.

“They were in your apartment,” Winter says, reaching around and taking his pants back from Brock’s slack grip.

“No, they were in your pocket,” Brock says.

“I uh—meant to give them back,” Winter mumbles.

“I don’t wear them,” he points out. He never has. Winter’s never seen him with them. Shield, nor Hydra allowed their covert agents identification in the field. It wasn’t how intelligence and covert operations went. Brock hadn’t worn them since he was recruited.

“There wasn’t much at your place,” Winter shrugs, shuffling into his jeans again, “I thought you were dead,” he defends.

Really, Brock hadn’t any plans for taking this any further. The sex at least. But when he turns to Winter, he looks slightly bashful, biting his lip and looking away. His hair is a tangled mess, and his skin glows with sweat, and those jeans hang off his hips with nothing underneath and some things can’t be helped.

“Why in your pocket?” he asks.

Winter just shrugs a naked shoulder.

“Come here” Brock hears his own voice lowly.

Winter walks on his knees to Brocks side of the bed, cheeks still pink.

Brock doesn’t bother imagining the sight first, just slips them over Winter’s head and drinking it in.

“Should be wearin’ ‘em,” Brock says gruffly, “You know I’m yours,” and a metal hand comes up and presses the metal tags to Winters chest, tinkling softly at the gently collision.

Winter’s expression is an even gentler collision, open and trusting and grateful and it hits Brock all at once how much he’s gone on this man.

There is a certain erotic nature to wearing the tags of another person, Brock thinks. When Winter leans down to kiss Brock softly, he can’t help the way he loses control just a bit and deepens it, tangling his fingers in the chain and tugging until Winter moans, coming forward easily until he’s straddling Brock whose leaned up against the headboard.

That’s Brock’s name, and the last rank he earned that brought anything good to the world and it’s wrapped around Winter the same way Brock himself is in every sense of the words.

“I’m yours too,” Winter pants softly, gripping Brocks hand where it’s still wrapped in the chain and squeezing softly, “all yours,” he says again and kisses Brock harder, like he hadn’t just came down Brocks throat five minutes ago, like he’s suddenly just as desperate for Brock as Brock is for him.

“All mine?” Brock grins into the kiss.

Winter hums, grinding his hips down against Brock’s crotch, “To have,” he says with a tight roll of his body, “To hold,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around Brock’s neck. He wiggles his ass just a bit with a smirk, “Till death do us part,” he says.

Brock grinds his own hips up then with a low noise.

Winter likes the sound, starts pulling at the hem of Brock’s shirt now. Brock freezes up, doesn’t let it happen. Stops moving.

“Brock,” Winter says pleadingly.

A long moment passes before he sighs, “You know when I said it’s not as bad at it looks?” he says, rubbing the scars up his arm, the ones the Winter has seen.

Winter frowns, “It’s worse than it looks,” he summarizes, “I know, I don’t care,” he assures, “If it’s because you’re in pain, fine, but—” he says, hand tailing down to the hardness in Brock’s jeans, “If its not, I don’t about the rest,” he mumbles.

“You should,” he says.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” Winter whispered, giving a biting kiss to Brock’s throat. He learns fast.

Frustration, Winter, lust, whatever—wins over and he’s abandoning his plans not to do this. He leans up, tips Winter back and crashes their mouths back together before the mattress has settled with the new weight of them at the foot.

He’s getting Winter out of his jeans all over again and the kid just grins, broad and proud.

He thinks about leaving his own clothes on. About insisting that if they do this, then that’s how.

For about five seconds before countless memories of Winter’s pain, suffering, and humiliation come to mind, and he refuses to become a part of the trauma.

He grits his teeth and pulls his own shirt up and off.

Winter doesn’t bother to be stealthy. Bites his lip and looks his fill and Brock… lets him. In a way. He doesn’t stay still and let Winter examine him, but he doesn’t stop him either, and that’s all he can do.

Winter looks, gut churning at the angry red and pink raised, uneven flesh. He looks, but he doesn’t say anything. Not right now.

For the first time in their lives, they have a later.

So, Winter will speak later.

For now, he tracks Brock’s features. The uncomfortable set of his spine, the clench of his jaw.

“Like this,” Winter says, and rolls onto his stomach. It gives him an advantageous sightline to the door anyway.

He feels Brock breathe a sigh of obvious relief. Feels his weight shift too. Brock kisses him between the shoulders.

They don’t talk about it right now.

They don’t have to.

Brock lays a handgun next to Winter’s elbow and shucks off his pants.

When he returns he shows a bottle of lube to Winter, “This yours?” he asks.

Winter snorts, “No,” he says.

“Alright,” Brock laughs and pops the cap.

It’s a fight for Winter to keep his eyes open and his brain online enough to keep stock of the door leading into the rest of the apartment, but he blames it on the oversensitivity because it’s really been less than ten minutes since Brock’s fingers were inside him. That doesn’t stop him from arching into the touch wanting more and faster and now.

He can feel Brock hard against the back of his thigh and his whole body is alright for it. Winter likes sex a lot. It feels good. He’s a hedonist in every sense and he’s unapologetic about that. Brock tells him he deserves the things that feel good. This is his favourite.

His favourite might be riding Brock though. If he’s ranking sex.

He doesn’t mind settling for this right now though. Not when he knows he’ll get it any way he wants soon enough.

He also likes fucking Brock, but he has a feeling it might take some convincing before that happens again. It always does.

_Winter was the one to propose it the first time, the idea stemming from the tight stretch of black tac pants over Brock’s ass as he bent and lifted the surveillance equipment they were using for the mission. It seemed meant to be when the convoy was delayed a full hour and they were left waiting in the under-construction high rise somewhere in Dubai._

_He was actually pretty sure Brock hated it at first, when Winter had finally bottomed out, pressed tight to his Commanders back. The level of the building they needed to be in was nothing but a skeleton of a would-be office floor and so this is where they found themselves, up against the bare concrete wall, pants around their ankles and Brock looking tense enough to snap._

_He was vibrating with the tension in every muscle except for the muscles that it was really important he not tense, and it was the kind of bodily control Winter wasn’t sure he’d ever have himself._

_Winter was about to tell him they should stop, that he didn’t want Brock to be sore for the mission, whatever he thought Brock would accept as excuse enough to stop doing something he clearly didn’t want to be doing when his hand moved and brushed Brock’s cock._

_His still very hard, very wet cock._

_Brock hissed and squeezed around Winters cock, making him twitch inside._

_“Fuck, Winter,” he groaned, voice wrecked with whatever he was feeling._

_“Do you want me to move?” Winter asked tentatively._

_Brock actually made a sound like a laugh and rested his forehead against the wall, he turned his face just enough to shoot Winter a cocky smirk, “if you do, this is doing to be over a lot sooner than you’d like,” he breathed._

_“Oh,” Winter said, eyes wide with realization._

_Brock did laugh then, a little breathless, “Good angle,” he said with a wink, as if congratulating Winter on nailing Brock’s prostate on the first thrust._

_“Yeah,” Winter agreed, light headed—Brock was incredibly tight and it was doing things to Winter, “real good,” he said._

_It was another full moment of nothing but breathing and feeling each other before Brock moved his hips, “Kay,” he hummed, “’m good,” he told Winter._

_Winter nodded, his own forehead pressed to Brocks nape._

_It was kind of incredible. Brock wasn’t passive, the position gave him ample leverage to chase the angle and the pace he wanted while still allowing Winter the illusion of some control, snapping his own hips forward, chasing his own pleasure in Brock’s tight body._

_It didn’t take long before they were both close, and Brock having taught Winter well, he knew to let the bottom come first by wrapping his flesh hand around Brock’s cock and giving a few quick tugs. Brock’s thighs shook and his head fell back on Winters shoulder with a bitten off moan._

_The feeling of Brock’s body getting impossibly tighter and hotter around Winter had his own thrusts stuttering and he was about to pull out and come into his fist still wet with Brock’s own come when Brock reached back and stilled Winter’s hips._

_“Win,” Brock panted, grip tight enough to bruise, “Win, don’t pull out,” he said, lowly._

_“What?” Winter asked with a whine. He was so close he could barely think, let alone figure out why Brock was stopping him, but he complied with Brocks hand stilling him, in case the man was too oversensitive to continue this way._

_“Come inside me, Winter,” Brock said instead of ‘stop, it hurts’._

_Winter’s last functioning braincell flickered offline, his hips jerking of their own accord._

_“What?” he said again._

_Brock’s voice had an obvious amused smile in it when he pressed back against him, “Hurry the fuck up, and come with your dick in my ass,” he said, “They won’t look for it on me,” he adds._

_Because the reason Brock could never do that to Winter was the evidence it would leave. Hydra might not check the asset over for all signs of damage, but they would definitely still notice if there was drying come on the inside of his thighs during cryo-prep._

_With that, it took under a minute for Winter to completely lose himself to the feeling and come deep inside Brock’s hole._

_A shiver ran up Brock’s spine and Winter came even harder knowing Brock might actually be able to feel it happening._

_“Still prefer it the other way,” Brock remarked afterwards, sitting a little awkwardly on the ground, smoking a cigarette and watching out the glass windows for a sign of the convoy they needed to crash._

_“Why’s that?” Winter asked._

_“Like doing the work,” he said, voice tight with held smoke. He exhaled the sharp cloud of grey, “Like making you feel good,” he went on, “Like the sounds you make,” he hummed._

_Winter smiled, “You’ve convinced me, we’ll never do it this way again,” he said._

_“Well,” Brock said haughtily, “I didn’t say that,” he huffed._

_Winter laughs to himself and hides it in the other man’s shoulder._

_The next time the did it that way, Brock rode Winter’s cock and had to muffle the noises Winter made that he loves so much._

Now, Winter groans breathy into the sheets without shame, feeling Brock’s hard length lining up with his entrance. He arches his back and presses into the sensation and Brock makes a noise like a low hum of approval but it comes out something like a growling purr and has heat singing through Winter’s veins. The only thing that stops him from melting completely is the knowledge of the coming discomfort that always takes a minute to adjust to.

Except that it doesn’t come.

Brock slides into Winter’s body with a hiss, and Winter’s arms give out at how _fast_ it goes.

He can’t stop the slightly hysteric giggle that leaves him in a rush. So that’s why people use _real_ lube.

It can’t be more than thirty seconds before Winter’s telling Brock he can move, and he’s glad that Brock doesn’t question him. Brock likely feels it too, so much easier it is. Not that Winter is loose, exactly. Just that whatever lube they’re using will be coming with them when they make it out of here. If they make it out of here.

The slide of Brock’s cock into Winter’s body is better than any of the things they’ve used over the years, and Brock can’t help but go just a little harder, a little slower to feel the tight grip dragging along his length, breathing hotly against the back of Winters neck, tasting hair and sweat and not caring in the least.

Winter makes the most amazing bitten off noises that make Brock never want to stop. His hips rock back insistently to meet Brock’s, and he lets it happen, lets Winter meet the deep, slow thrusts, clenching down around him every time he pulls out. He doesn’t let Winter control the speed though. He sets that himself.

Brock is rocking into him and Winter’s vision is blurring it feels so good. He wants more, so much more. He’s not used to slow. God, not even a little. He reaches back, tries to grab onto Brock’s hip, pull him deeper, but Brock hisses and jerks from the contact.

“Shit, sorry,” Winter is saying, stopping his own movements.

Brock doesn’t respond, just takes Winters hands in his, pins them to the bed and covers Winters body with his own, caging him.

“Oh,” Winter hears himself moan.

“You already came,” Brock rasps, “Stop being greedy, baby,” he purrs and nips at Winters ear, “I want to take my time with you,” he says.

Winter smirks, “I’m always greedy,” he pants.

Brock hums, “That’s true,” he says.

“Your turn,” Winter says, looking over his shoulder to meet Brock’s eyes, blown wide and dark, “’m all yours,” he says. The meaning runs further than Brock’s new-found possessive streak. They lock eyes and it becomes the turning point between sneaking around and stealing shared moments that didn’t belong to them, and carving out a life that was theirs. Only theirs.

Winter is no longer Hydra’s property, and neither is Brock.

Brock starts thrusting again, keeping that same maddening pace, but he shifts the angle to make Winter cry out, bite down hard on his plush bottom lip and roll his eyes back with the feeling of it. Brock moans at the way Winter flutters against him, squeezing tight.

“Think I can make you come just like this?” he pants, grip tightening on Winters hands to make the point.

Winter whimpers, eyes screwing shut in obvious dislike of the idea, but then with a pitiful little whine, he nods against the bed, and his voice cracks when he chokes out, “Yeah-huh”.

“You wanna come like this for me?” Brock asks lowly, feeling himself begin to speed up, and Winter stops trying to meet his thrusts, just keeps his ass up and lets Brock fuck him into the mattress, harder and harder, just the way he’d been demanding earlier. Now, Winter can’t seem to handle it, moaning high and eyes glassy with pleasure, he might actually be drooling a little with the way his mouth is hanging open.

Winter gasps wetly against the mattress and feels himself nodding, making some sort of non-verbal noise of consent, though he’s fucked if he knows why.

“Good boy,” Brock groans.

Maybe he does know why.

Brock feels the super-soldier under him begin to shake, thighs trembling, fingers tightening around Brocks and noises reaching a critical whine and he knows Winter is going to come, untouched and falling apart just for Brock, and the feeling, the situation, the reality of it all is a heady rush that has Brock on a momentary power trip or something, because he doesn’t even feel the tight pinch of his scars anymore. He presses tighter against Winter’s back and fucks him harder, harder, and detangles one hand from Winters to tangle instead in the chain of his tags around Winters neck, grabbing the plates where they are fanned out on the bed with Winter’s sweaty hair. He wonders if Winter’s cheek will be pink from how hard he’s pressing the side of his face into the mattress.

“Mine,” he whispers roughly against Winter’s temple. “I’m gonna come inside you, make you all mine,” he breathes harsh, panting, breathless.

He feels Winter go so tense his vibrates with the tension, feels his hole spasming and clenching around Brock and moans, drowned out by Winters own gasp and sudden frantic, “uh, uh, uh, oh fuck, B, I’m— _oh!_ ”.

It’s the sensation, it’s the sounds Winter makes, it’s his pretty flushed face screwing up in pleasure that’s just this side of too much and it’s the thought that Brock has Winter, his Winter, coming untouched on his cock at the mere mention of Brock coming inside his ass that sends him tumbling over the edge too.

Brock had barely caught his breath, but Winter always recovers faster, and he makes a low pleased sound and whispers, “Holy fuck,” still sounding slurred from the way he’s still pressed now flat to the bed. Brock makes a rough hum of agreement.

When he can feel his extremities again, he opens his eyes and see’s Winter smiling at nothing, looking in the direction of the door, but not really seeing anything at all. It makes him smile, press a kiss to his shoulder and down his spine as Brock levers himself up so he’s no longer crushing Winter into the bed.

He pulls out and Winter hisses quietly at the over sensitivity. He makes a choked off sound when Brocks hands come up and spread his ass of their own accord. He makes a sharp noise when some of Brock’s come leaks out of him. He makes a low frustrated groan when Brock’s fingers stuff it all back in, but he spreads his thighs a little wider and doesn’t pull away.

“Mine,” Brock whispers.

Winter tilts his hips up, clenches down on Brock’s fingers, and even without tearing his eyes away from Winters slick hole, he knows the man has a dopey smile on his face, “Mine,” Winter hums back.

Brock’s not sure he’s going to be able to convince Winter into the shower tonight, which should be objectively gross, but he doesn’t think he wants to, and he thinks the gross might just be a little hot, as least, this one time.

Brock gives Winters ass one more squeeze, kisses the small of his back, and rolls to lie next to him. Winter doesn’t turn to inspect Brock’s mangled body, just hooks his ankle over Brocks and lets the sweat cool of both of their skin soft and comfortable, like there isn’t a gun sitting on the bed between them.

“We really doing this?” Winter murmurs after a while. “Teaming up with the Avengers, letting them take down Hydra?” It’s what Brock had asked Winter just earlier, but there’s more to it than that-- than what they are saying out loud.

When Brock asked Winter, he was asking Winter what he really wanted.

Now, as Winter asks Brock, it’s a question of if they are able to pull it off. Can Brock deliver what they both want? Or will they be trapped under the Avengers thumb just as they had been Hydra?

He doesn’t look at Brock. He wants to believe him if Brock has to lie to him.

“and walking out into the sunset,” Brock says, and Winter believes him. If only because they don’t have a choice.

Something like hope is simmering in Brock’s chest. A plan has taken form, and now that Winter knows that, he thinks they may just have a chance at this. It’s the sunset part that has been the challenge.

Teaming up with Rogers ran the risk that he’d never let Barnes go. Who knows how drastic the man could be. He was stubborn, Brock knew that much. So, the sunset.

How to walk away from the Avengers and disappear.

Brock sat up after a little while, and while he announced his destination as a shower, he didn’t try and force Winter along too.

He didn’t bother to cover himself up, felt Winters eyes burning his mangled skin hotter than the flames that did it, but tried his best not to tense under the gaze.

When he returned, towel clad and no longer itchy, Winter was dressed and reading the directions for the burn cream Stark had brought up.

He nodded wordlessly to the bed.

“Win—” Brock started.

“Let me,” he said, and Brock had never heard Winter’s voice that tight. That tense.

Biting his lip, he laid wordlessly down on his stomach.

Winter was almost too gentle removing the towel from where it was wrapped around Brocks hips.

Winter’s hand was shaking when he started the process of mapping Brock’s body with ointment coated fingertips.

Brock couldn’t say which one of them was more tense.

“I’m—” Winter’s voice broke.

“No,” Brock cut him off sharply, squeezing his eyes shut, “No,” he pressed his forehead to his clenched fist. It wasn’t anybody’s fault and he never wanted Winter to regret getting away from Hydra the way he did. It didn’t matter if Brock was no longer much to look at. He was alive. It was fine. It didn’t hurt as much as it could, he knew. The doctors had done more for his comfort than they thought he deserved, he understood that much.

“I love you,” Winter said instead.

Brock let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and just like that, the tension was gone.

He supposes it was Brock’s own fear of rejection that was causing it. He almost wants to laugh when Winter keeps saying it. Over and over. _I love you_. Instead, Brock keeps his eyes screwed shut because yeah, the scars, his skin, his body, it really fucking hurts. And this? This feels a lot like that not pain feeling the Soldier talks about.

He’s not crying, but Winter still kisses his temple and hushes him like maybe he knows how near a thing it is.

They don’t sleep in hour-long intervals that night. Winter lets Brock sleep uninterrupted for the first six, then sleeps three himself while Brock packs their bag, checks over the gear Winter spent the night cleaning, and _plans_.

The next day see’s them back in Starks lab to get the tracker out.

They can’t seem to go anywhere in this damn building without an audience, but Brock and Winter are used to that. Not so much used to being affectionate in public, but Winter doesn’t mind. He instigates a lot of it actually. Brock does too, though. When Rogers is around.

He can’t get Rogers’s words out of his head.

_You’re safe now you don’t need…._

_Me?_

“Give me the thing,” Brock barks, “I’ll do it myself,” he tells Banner.

“You could cripple yourself,” he says.

“Don’t care,” Brock snaps back.

“B, let him do it,” Winter says softly, “Please,” he adds.

Brock glares at those ridiculous puppy-dog eyes, thinks he has a chance at denying him but then Winter tangles the chain of Brocks tags around his flesh finger and stares at Brock with those big, bright, stormy eyes and he sighs, defeated.

The kid grins. Winter knows he’s got Brock wrapped around his finger just the same as he’s got Brock’s tags doing the same damn thing, and it shows.

It hurts just as much coming out as it did going in, so Brock is inclined to believe it worked.

He and Winter still jerry-rig a receptor to try picking up a possible signal to make sure the thing is actually out.

Brock negotiates them a car of their own that night when they make to leave for the base Brock tells them they should hit first. He’s pretty sure Romanoff at the very least knows the plan, but she can’t exactly stop it. No tracker was a requirement. That extends to both Brock’s foot and any equipment. So, they steal a car or their own instead of taking one of Stark’s. Rogers makes them leave a note and cash behind—Winter hopes someone stumbles upon it and takes it before the car owner gets back. He mumbled this out-loud to Brock who swats him in the arm with his own his own amused chuckle.

They promise to keep their communicators on and they lead the way from the tower through the city, highway, to the Hydra base. The whole time an SUV of highly trailed heroes ride their ass.

Winter doesn’t much care about the people listening in though. He pulls the CD out from his duffle in the backseat and slides it into the player.

He also takes his comm out and tosses it on the dash.

Brock sighs, “You really going to be a contrary asshole all day?” he asks, but it’s belied by the slight uptick of his mouth.

“Might be,” Winter responds before hitting play.

“You gonna sing to me, then? Make up for it?”

“Oh sure,” Winter teases right back, taking a deep breath.

The serum had done a lot to enhance the super-soldier, but apparently it couldn’t make him less tone deaf.

“Oh no,” Brock laughs, hand coming off the wheel to cover Winter mouth, “I take it back, I take it back!” he yells, “They’ll think I’m strangling a cat in here! Or worse! You’ll bow the speakers on Stark’s tech!”.

They laugh and wrestle in the front seat, careful not to steer of the road before catching their breath, then Winter hits the rewind button on the stereo, kicked his booted feet up on the dash, and leaned back in his seat.

He did start to sing, then. Humming at first, that first verse, but when the chorus began, he sang. Deep and low and softly. Barely audible.

He was not so much tone deaf in that moment.

It made Brock’s breath catch.

“ _So, hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong. Hold me when I'm scared and love me when I'm gone_ ,” he breathes out, soft.

“ _Everything I am and everything in me, wants to be the one you wanted me to be. I'll never let you down, even if I could. I'd give up everything if only for your good, so hold me when I'm here, right me when I'm wrong_ ,” he’s almost speaking more than singing, and yet it’s a beautiful sound. Brock’s favourite new sound, actually.

“ _You can hold me when I'm scared, you won't always be there, so love me when I'm gone, love me when I'm gone_ ,” and Winter takes Brocks free hand in his and brought it to his lips, let him feel the vibration of his voice in the brush of the kiss he placed there.

Winter continued to mumble the lyrics low and soft, humming what he didn’t know and holding Brock’s hand in his own.

As the song came to a close, so did Winter’s eyelids. Leaned back in the seat, Brock’s hand kept a gentle hostage in his lap, he allowed himself to rest again to the familiar albums tune.

A while passed before the next song the Winter knew the words to came on, but he didn’t sing this time.

“Your turn. Sing to me,” he demanded of Brock.

Unlike Winter, Brock actually could sing. At least, he used to.

“Win—” he tried to cop out.

“No, I sang to you and I’m awful at it,” he says, “’sides, I want a better memory,” he adds.

Low blow.

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know?”

“Why do you think I keep saving your life?” he winked.

Brock rolled his eyes, but when Winter restarted the song, Brock did his best, unthinking of their audience. He ran his thumb over the back of Winters hand, but focused mostly on the road.

“ _A hundred days have made me older since the last time that I saw your pretty face. A thousand lies have made me colder and I don't think I can look at this the same. All the miles that separate… disappear now when I'm dreamin' of your face_ ,” he sings softer than he would have before the accident, and it scratches his throat, and he doesn’t care at all.

“ _I'm here without you baby_ ,” he sings on a sigh, “ _but you're still on my lonely mind. I think about you baby and I dream about you all the time. I'm here without you baby but you're still with me in my dreams. And tonight boy, it's only you and me_ ,” he changes the lyrics just a little, see’s Winter smile out of the corner of his eye and rolls them in fond exasperation.

“ _The miles just keep rollin' as the people leave their way to say hello. I've heard this life is overrated, but I hope that it gets better as we go_ ,” he hums the chorus this time, even though Winter shoots him a look. It softens when Brock has to swallow roughly, the sound raspy. He squeezes Winters hand though, and he keeps singing with the next verse, even turning his head to shoot a rough smirk Winters way.

“ _Everything I know, and anywhere I go, it gets hard but it won't take away my love. And when the last one falls, when its all said and done. It gets hard but it won't take away my love_ ,” he brings Winters hand over to his own lips this time, and sings against his skin until the song fades, “ _And tonight, it's only you and me_ ”.

Winter grins brightly at him from the passenger seat.

“Happy now?”

“As a clam,” Winter said with a bright, goofy grin.

“Death of me,” Brock mumbled.

“But what a way to go, huh old man?” Winter teased.

“Old man,” Brock scoffed, “Who are you callin’ old man, _James Barnes_ ,” he mutters. He says the name like it’s an ill-fitting label and Winter only grins.

He is no James Barnes.

Winter doesn’t think Brock an old man, either.

They’ll both still tease.

If anyone is listening on the other side of the communicators, they don’t comment.

It’s not much longer before they’re coming up on the base. Winter puts the discarded device back in his ear.

Brock has a plan.

He knows Winter knows the plan, though they haven’t said anything about it out-loud.

It’s directly related to why they had their own car. Why Brock directs the Avengers to move in from the East when he and Winter move in from the West.

It’s not a sure-fire thing, this plan.

It’s the plan, _a_ plan, whatever, only if this base proves as fruitful as Brock thinks it will.

There is a chance it has already been too long since Brock’s trial made the news. There is also a larger chance that Jackson and the others know Brock isn’t a rat, and that despite Brock’s disloyalty coming to light within Hydra before the fall of SHIELD, he’d rather rot or die then sell himself out. Larger still is the chance that the operation here is just too massive to have upped and vacated in a few short days.

They hide the car, close enough to the base and the road to make a clean break. Or look like it at least.

They won’t escape in this car. That’s why Winter takes the CD out of the player and tucks it under his gear and a layer of Kevlar.

The widow will notice it and know they made a getaway. It’s a courtesy to Rogers as much as it is Winter holding onto the sentimentality.

When _, if_ , Brock and Winter beat feet out of this place after giving the Avengers the golden egg, the Widow will confirm it was planned and that they weren’t captured.

As long as this base has Jackson and all the information it should have, of course.

Brock and Winter creep along the treeline.

The base is _crawling_ with agents.

Brock grins.

Winter beams.

“How the hell couldn’t we find this place, Stark?” Rogers says over the line.

“I… don’t know” he said.

Brock grins some more, “This was STRIKE’s contingency plan for a possible Insight failure,” he explains, “Wasn’t on the records,” he says.

“You lead the STRIKE team,” Romanoff states. She’s not in the field with her broken arm, but she’s on the lines, in the truck the Avengers took.

“Which is why you need me,” he reminds.

This wasn’t _Brock’s_ contingency plan. Not really. Sure, he helped set it up. It was never what _he_ planned to do though.

“Everyone is in position,” Winter spoke up.

“What are we looking for?” Rogers asks.

Brock nods, though Winter is the only one who sees it.

“Once we’ve engaged, I’ll give Stark the passcode for the main computer system to start wiring it back to Romanoff,” he says, “Rogers, Wilson—keep the way cleared for him,” he commands, “Winter and I have some old friends to visit,” he grins, “Romanoff can keep on the comms, tag relevant information,” he says.

“You’re going to torture someone,” Wilson speaks up.

He doesn’t bother to confirm or deny that.

“Move in,” Brock calls instead.

Working with the Avengers is not Brock’s favourite.

They are much less organised than STRIKE.

They are much more dramatic too.

They can’t seem to do anything without giving away their position with several explosions.

It helps Brock and Winter move through the compound like wraiths. Helps sort cannon fodder from who they really need.

Winter is excellent at preventing anyone from swallowing cyanide after a few trial and error attempts.

A trail of bodies begins at one end of the hallway with a few dead mouth-foamers and ends with seven unconscious operatives zip tied and waiting for the Avengers to collect later.

They weave silently into the depths of the base.

Brock can’t get over the amount of chatter that goes on between the Avengers. It grates his nerves a lot.

“Did they jump ship, Nat?” Stark inquires when his attempts to engage them in banter fail.

_Not yet._

Romanoff sighs, “No, Tony. They are using a quieter approach, maybe you should try it,” she says.

“Don’t believe you. J bring up the CTV,” he says, and then, “Oh shit, never mind” he hisses.

“Can’t have a murder couple without the murder, Stark,” Winter says quietly.

No one speaks for a while after that.

They reach the inner most guts of the building soon after.

And there, scrambling across the floor, was their ticket out of this. The golden egg. The only other living man who knows where that scepter is. Jack Rollins’ second in Command. Keith Jackson.

“Ah shit, they let you out?” Jackson hissed.

Brock grinned, hauling the man up onto his feet only to shove him down into the chair behind him. He picks up the stun baton that was dropped in the panic. Tosses it in the air and catches it. He looks to the dark shape in the shadows of the room and thinks of revenge he’d only ever managed in part all those years ago in Mexico.

“Something like that,” Brock said with that same grin.

Jackson blinked owlishly, confused before realization dawned.

“Shit, the Asset,” he whispered.

Brock grin only grew, “Something like that,” he said with an excited lilt.

Winter emerged from the shadows.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!!!
> 
> sorry it got sappy and turned into a musical or whatever

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://notdoingsohot.tumblr.com/)


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